


Extra Sugar

by luninosity



Series: Like Sugar (Spell It Out) [6]
Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anniversary, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Drugging, Blindfolds, Blueberries, Bondage, Car Accidents, Comfort, Common Cold, Consensual Kink, Conversations, Date Night, Deleted Scenes, Drabble Collection, ESPECIALLY CHAPTER SIX, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, First Meetings, Flogging, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Heavy BDSM, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Interviews, Kittens, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Meeting the Parents, Minor Injuries, Missing Scene, Naked Cuddling, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Politics, Porn with Feelings, Protective Chris, Safeword Use, Sexual Content, Sounding, Spanking, Subspace, Talking, Training, True Love, Violet Wand, Watersports, Worldbuilding, check chapter notes for individual warnings, check notes for chapter 21, check warnings for chapter seventeen too, in chapter 26, preceding tags all in chapter 21, that last only in chapter eleven though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 97,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the bonus scenes, deleted scenes, alternate versions of scenes, short snippets, and extra tidbits from this series. Some are canonical but just don't fit the main storyline; some might be early versions or alternate versions of scenes. Some might be porn, some are just fluff. Check notes and such on individual chapters, since they'll vary!</p><p> <b>*chapter 28, in which Seb ends up in the hospital (he's okay! I promise!) and they have to call Chris's mother as his emergency contact because Chris is on a plane, added 1/8/2018*</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. photography and a phone call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A photoshoot, a phone call, and, yes, a lot of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one IS canonical, though it takes place somewhere vaguely in the future, after they've said the I-love-yous and totally gotten comfortable with each other and the marriage.
> 
> Written for [this photo of Sebastian over on tumblr.](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/101773094289/mortizjano-sebastian-stan-thats-not-how-you)

The problem is, it's truly terrible coffee.  
  
Sebastian's agreed to be the subject of this photoshoot and article because, well, he's still kind of flattered whenever anyone wants to talk to him. Composers, even if they've got an Academy Award nomination and a few other important-organization nods, don't generally make the covers of _Rolling Stone_ or _Vanity Fair_.   
  
And up until the terrible coffee, it's actually pretty fun, because the writer's lovely and enthusiastic about his work, and the photographer decides he has "magical cheekbones!" and he gets into and out of various costumes and poses and in general is having the time of his life. He's wearing a simpler version of his submissive's collar, mostly just a thin chain that can show or not in pictures; the photographer loves that idea, loves the unconventional circumstance and the possibilities thereof: Sebastian and Chris, the pair who've opened up new ways of being together.  
  
Sebastian, when one of the lighting crew detours over to shake his hand, stumbles through some sort of appreciative reply. He'd never expected to be a symbol.  
  
He is, of course. He and Chris together are. A submissive with a life of his own, with rights and playfulness and a career, and the Dominant who's not simply permitted this but said publicly and privately that Sebastian's life _is_ his own, shared with Chris by choice. That it's about love.  
  
And that whole being-a-symbol concept, of course. Part of the reason, though not the only reason, he's the subject of this article.   
  
They hand him a large old-looking book because someone's heard he likes reading and fairy-tales, and he poses with that and coffee, and the cameras click away. He pretends to take a sip of the coffee, and they click some more.   
  
He decides he might as well take an actual sip of the coffee, why not, more dynamic for the shot, right, and so he does.   
  
And then he nearly spits it across the room.   
  
He doesn't--being polite, dammit--but it's a close call.   
  
Sebastian's not precisely a coffee elitist--he loves Starbucks too much for that--but dear God and all His minions, no.   
  
"Oh," says one of the assistants, looking mortified, "please don't--I know it's awful, I'm so sorry, it's mostly a prop, we can get you better--"   
  
"Please," Sebastian says, " _te rog,_ yes, would you? Sorry--" and half-jokingly pretends to tip the watery mess out.   
  
"Hmm," says his photographer.   
  
"Hmm?"   
  
"Do it again," says the photographer this time, and takes away all the props in the background, leaving just Sebastian and the book and the mug. "Go on."   
  
"Well, all right..." He tips the mug. Liquid shimmers down, a golden-brown cascade. He's looking right at the camera and he hopes it's fine. No one's saying anything.   
  
After a while the cameras stop clicking. Someone, very quietly, says, "Wow."   
  
"...wow? Can I see?" At the nod, he gets up. Comes over to the display.   
  
Huh. That's...   
  
Wow might be a good word. He doesn't look like himself, or maybe he does, he's not sure, it's a paradox. Long legs and long arms, the limbs he's used to thinking of as gawky, accentuated here by the graceful tumbling of liquid and the stark background. There's casual undeniable edge to his style, boots and leather jacket--but there's also welcome in the curve of his lips, secrets in the leatherbound tome, and he looks like someone who could maybe save the world, defiant rebel kid and brilliant determined magician all at once.   
  
It'll sell magazine copies. That much he knows.   
  
"Definitely wow," agrees the photographer, running a hand through her short spiky hair.   
  
"Can I...send a copy to Chris?" He doesn't need to explain who Chris is. That reputation again. News stories. Cultural flashpoints. Symbols.   
  
"Totally, yeah, here--" An email, an attachment; he grabs his phone, hits forward. Chris, despite being mid-composition, a new installation for a children's museum, calls back immediately, and opens with, "Holy _fuck_."   
  
" _Da_. They made me look...good."   
  
"You make you look good," Chris scolds gently. "Not surprised they can see it. Everyone's gonna see it. Beautiful."   
  
"Everyone..."   
  
Chris, being Chris, picks up on the sudden shyness, and the reason why, instantly. "Yeah. And they're all gonna want you, and you're still mine. All mine. Got it?"   
  
"...yes, Chris."   
  
"Is that you wasting coffee?" Chris's voice is playful and assertive and reassuring and beloved and exactly what Sebastian needs. " 'Cause I know how much you love coffee. And that's you pouring it out, all over the floor."   
  
"It was terrible, sir." Teasing right back, because he can, because Chris has given him back enough equilibrium. "Though...I do know how you feel about me wasting food...even if this one is technically a beverage..."   
  
"Love you," Chris says. "So I'll spank you for that when you get home, then. The way you want me to. I'll put you on your knees when you walk in the door and make you follow me to the bedroom and beg for my hand on your ass, and you'll love it."   
  
Sebastian actually hears his breath catch. Lightning-bolts down his spine, giddy and sweet. He has the overwhelming impulse to sink to his knees in the middle of the studio. No one's quite looking, or at least not letting themselves be caught looking, which is not quite the same thing.   
  
"You'll come like that," Chris says, "from me spanking you, over my knee, your jeans around your ankles, when I say you can. Are you hard?"   
  
"Y--yes, Chris...Chris, please, I--"   
  
"Touch yourself."   
  
Sebastian whimpers out loud, cheeks flaming--need, embarrassment, public humiliation, secret shameful craving for Chris to go on, desire--and does, fingers stroking the rigid ache of his cock through the rough denim of his jeans. The jeans're too tight, but the tightness becomes a pleasurable discomfort with Chris's voice in his ear.   
  
"Good," Chris praises. "Now stop. You don't get to come until I say. Finish your photoshoot."   
  
"Like _this_ \--"   
  
"Then take off your underwear in the bathroom. Then come straight home. Where I can punish you the way you want me to."   
  
Sebastian mutters a few profanities in various languages. He could go on touching, could duck into that bathroom right now and--   
  
"Don't even think about it."   
  
"I am," Sebastian informs him, "so hard it physically _hurts_. Thank you for that, sir."   
  
"Perfect," Chris says happily. "I love you that way."   
  
"Love you." He sighs. "We should be done soon. I think that was the shot."   
  
" _The_ shot. Yep."   
  
"Not that kind of--you really think so? People might get off to it?"   
  
"To you? Hell yeah. But you're still mine. Only me touching. Go be done and come home."   
  
"Yes, Chris," Sebastian says, and ends the call smiling, and turns around to find half the production crew beaming at him.   
  
Well. Not so much a surprise. He and Chris are quite possibly the most famous Dominant/submissive pair around, at least at this particular fickle celebrity moment, while the world teeters toward change. That world's not going to pass up a chance to watch them perform, even if just over the phone.   
  
He's still hard and that's painfully obvious and his flushed cheeks're probably obvious too, and he shrugs at all the stares, widens his eyes innocently, and asks, "Do you need me to spill anything else on the floor?"


	2. two?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You weren’t my first, but…only two. Before you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's non-canonical! It's from an early draft of them discussing past experience and rules; in this version Sebastian would've been much more of a virgin, and Chris would've very kindly and tenderly introduced him to all sorts of things. Ultimately I decided I wanted Sebastian more experienced--at least physically--so that he could balance out Chris in certain respects, but I still like this scene. So you get to see the post-wedding-night morning that might've been.
> 
> All talking and hair-petting, no porn, though the D/s dynamics are inarguably in play.

“You really haven’t…” Chris hesitates, out of some emotion Sebastian can’t quite place. Disappointment? Disapproval? Awe? Surprise?    
  
He doesn’t think Chris is angry with him. Chris Evans doesn’t have a duplicitous bone in that generous body, and the arms around him’ve remained kind and caring and not at all tense. He closes his eyes, because looking at Chris is complicated.   
  
“…y’know, you haven’t,” Chris finishes. “Um. This. You didn’t—I mean, I know you didn’t, I was—was I your first?” Now that Boston-boy voice sounds abruptly dismayed. “Was I—was it—ah, fuck, that _was_ your first and they gave you drugs and I—I’m so fucking sorry—”   
  
“You weren’t.” He bites his lip. “Sorry, sir.”   
  
“For what?” Chris taps at his cheek. “Look at me? I didn’t expect you to be a virgin, I don’t _care_ , but—oh, shit, oh God, you—did someone ever, did anyone ever—something you didn’t want—”   
  
“No!” He flinches—interrupting his Dominant—but Chris in fact seems somewhat reassured by the emphatic interjection. He goes on, needing to clear this one up right now, “No. Nothing like that. I like sex, sir, I promise. It’s just been…mostly by myself. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out…oh.” The oh is because Chris has put a hand into his hair and settled his head against a shoulder. Authoritative, proprietary, and sure, and that’s…oddly nice.   
  
He adds, in case Chris wants to know, “You weren’t my first, but…only two. Before you. I had to be careful. Is that…”   
  
“Two, huh?” Chris kneads fingers along his scalp, voice a low rumble where their bodies’re joined. “I kinda like it. You weren’t a virgin…and, God, I was about to have a heart attack, just now, if that was your first time…but, and don’t take this for anything other than what I’m actually sayin’…I like you not knowing a lot. About this!—just about this. I get to show you. All mine.”   
  
Sebastian considers this phrasing, decides that the politic answer is, “Yes, sir,” and tries not to think about the fact that his pulse jumps when he says the words.   
  
Chris’s. He is. Yes. He’s….still kind of processing that entire concept. The question of him _liking_ it is a whole new labyrinth to traverse, and he’s not equipped for it quite this soon. No maze-navigating unbreakable twine.   
  
Not _yet_.   
  
“So. Two. That’s it?” Chris has kept on petting his hair. Soothing. Gentle continuous motion. Echoed in drowsy washes of gold through Sebastian’s entire body.   
  
“Well. Three, if one counts being seventeen and having Chace Crawford’s hand down my pants while we were in theory studying together.”   
  
Chris lets out an ominous rumble, but with affection. “At least tell me I’m better than seventeen-year-old Chace Crawford.”   
  
Sebastian leaves his head on Chris’s shoulder contentedly. “I am almost completely certain that you are, sir.”   
  
“Almost—”   
  
“Ninety-nine point nine percent certainty, perhaps?”   
  
“Oh,” Chris rumbles, “you are asking to be spanked, kid,” but his hand’s looped happily into Sebastian’s hair and not going anywhere. Sebastian inquires, “Is that a promise, sir?” and Chris laughs. “Would you like it to be?”


	3. planetarium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Sebastian, at a planetarium, on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one IS canonical, but, like...in the future. Like a year in the future.

Sebastian’s beautiful.

Chris thinks that every day, of course. Every minute; not loudly, not actively, maybe, if he’s working or distracted, but present as gravity. The Earth’s moving through space, and the sun’s keeping it company, and his husband’s beautiful.

Sebastian finishes pulling on coat and scarf, black wool and sapphire-striped fluff, and looks up. His eyes’re sparkling and Chris wants to kiss him.

That one’s also true every minute, every day.

“I don’t get to know where we’re headed?” Long fingers make short work of coat-buttons; Chris watches, entranced. “Are you certain you wish to surprise me?”

“Come on,” Chris says, heart full of love, “we’re gonna be late,” and then puts a hand on the back of his submissive’s neck and draws him into a kiss anyway, standing at the doorway.

Sebastian melts into the kiss readily, eyes slipping half-shut, lips parting. He tastes like coffee, like chestnuts and pralines and heat. He’s the other half of Chris’s soul.

He also asks, when Chris lets him go, “Come on where, Chris?” and then pauses with a glint in tidepool eyes that suggests he’s thinking about the _other_ way that question could be taken.

“Later,” Chris says meaningfully. “Anyway, didn’t I wear you out earlier, with the thing? You know, the…” He waves a hand. “Thing.” It’d vibrated. Lots of nubs and bumps in fascinating places. He’d kept Sebastian tied to the bed, screaming hoarsely in pleasure, for hours.

Sebastian, to his credit—or possibly because after nearly a year of marriage he’s in fact more likely than Chris to buy the humming or extra-large or electric-charged sex toys—doesn’t blush, only smirks. “Consider it a challenge, sir.”

But there’s something else in the tidepools; not concern, Sebastian has faith in him, but.

Sebastian’s not actually good at surprises. At accepting them, that is; he’s excellent at arranging for sneaky little deliveries of jellybeans and expensive drawing-paper under Chris’s name. And he loves the kind of surprises that happen when he’s got _some_ idea of what it might be, that it’s coming, that he’ll have a chance to prepare for whatever’s asked of him.

Sebastian trusts Chris implicitly. Sebastian doesn’t trust the world at large, as much as he enjoys it; he shares wide smiles and eagerness and love of his profession without a second thought, but there’re other pieces that only Chris gets permission to see. Childhood secret-police whispers, all the worse for how dimly remembered they are, phantoms in the night. Flinches at unexpected phone calls from unidentified parties. The life he’d had before their marriage, walking the razor’s edge of orientation and need and discovery.

No, Sebastian’s not comfortable with surprises. Not the wholly out-of-nowhere kind.

Chris, who quite frankly needs his submissive to be comfortable always, leaves his other hand lying on the back of Sebastian’s neck, squeezing lightly over scarf and coat-collar. The fabric’s snug and secure on his skin. Keeping Sebastian warm. “Just felt like taking you on a date. Not telling you where. No matter how many sex jokes you make on the way.”

“Are you certain,” Sebastian retorts, “I can…come up with…quite a few,” but those eyes beneath their long eyelashes glint appreciation and affection and fondness in turn.

“Please,” Chris begs, “as many as you can, all the sex jokes, there’s gotta be _something_ you can think of about dates,” and holds his hand all the way out of their building and to the waiting cab.

They’re taking the cab because Chris gets a little—only a little, but enough—anxious on the subway, particularly if they’ve got a deadline. He can never quite get over the lack of control: too many other people, too crowded, what if they miss their stop, what if the trains break down, what if what if—

Sebastian smiles at him, getting into the cab. Chris gets lost in that smile. Distracted.

Sebastian doesn’t mind public transport. It’s egalitarian. No distinctions of orientation, say, unlike their specific taxi, which, being one of the nicer variety, has small collapsible floor pads and belts tucked under seats. In case any Dominants’re feeling especially traditional, and require their subs to kneel.

Chris doesn’t ask. Wouldn’t. Only takes his husband’s hand where it’s lying between them on the seat, and brushes a kiss over the hills and valleys of ungloved knuckles.

It’s entirely possible their driver recognizes them. He grins, in the mirror. It’s the sort of grin that says _hey, I’ve seen you guys, you made the news, artists and faces of the submissives’ rights movement and all that;_ but he chooses in time-honored New York fashion to treat celebrity as ordinary, and settles for accepting Chris’s whispered instructions with a cheerful head-bob.

Sebastian’s lived in New York for years. People know him. Chris suspects that pale aquamarine eyes would be astonished at how fiercely those people’d defend his privacy, even if they privately think he should’ve come out sooner or been a better submissive; the woman who’d lived in the apartment across from Sebastian’s old one had, when Chris’d popped out to buy coffee on the third morning, opened her door and threatened to hit him with a wok if he ever hurt “that sweet boy.”

Chris had promised, utterly sincere, that he’d do everything in his power to never hurt his husband. He’d meant it. Not just because of the wok.

He rubs his thumb over the back of Sebastian’s hand. Sebastian glances over, startled out of contemplation. Some new melody, maybe, another composition that’d rip an audience’s collective hearts in two and then sew them all back together. Or only idle thoughts about the city beyond the window; Sebastian likes looking out of windows at the world. Or maybe none of those, and Chris’ll never know.

He says, quietly, “Love you.”

Sebastian’s smile lights up the night. “ _Te iubesc_.”

“Always.”

“Always…about the dates, I believe you should buy me some. At least three.”

“Huh?”

“We may have already had sex and gotten married,” Sebastian says, perfectly straight-faced, “but I’ve heard some people have a three-date rule; I think I’m owed something here…”

Chris stares at him for a second, and then dissolves into helpless adoring laughter. “Oh God…”

“For the record, yes, I do know the difference between the food and the social activity.” Pale eyes dance at him, fingers turning around to wrap themselves into Chris’s. “But I like dates. With honey.”

“Food or social activity?”

Sebastian grins. “Yes.”

Their driver lets out a suspiciously happy sigh.

The lights of New York City twinkle with glee. Frosty air and starshine in a conspiracy of delight.

It’s still relatively early—the last show at their destination starts at five pm, and they’ll be precisely on time—but it’s getting dark early, too, these days. Sebastian bundles himself up in scarves and sweaters when he goes out. Chris drapes arms and legs over him in bed and makes himself into a furnace. Heat for his too-thin husband, his husband who gets distracted by a line or a note and forgets to eat all afternoon. Fires burning steady and true.

They pull up and Sebastian’s already leaning forward, having guessed, fingers tight around Chris’s in excitement. Chris kind of wants to laugh at how eager those eyes’ve gotten, but instead just sits there caught up in all the joy and forgets to pay their driver until a meaningful cough reminds him.

Again: beautiful. Always.

Sebastian hops out of the cab behind him, eyes huge. “You took me to the Planetarium!”

“Not just that.” He fishes advance tickets for the last _Dark Universe_ Space Show out of his pocket and waves them to demonstrate. In front of them, the dome of the Hayden Planetarium rises in serene astrophysical joy. “In the mood for cosmic phenomena? Dark matter? Jupiter’s atmosphere?”

“Absolutely yes!”

“Thought so!” They run up to the doors hand in hand like boys; Sebastian stops, though, abruptly enough that Chris’s heart begins to pound. He gets as far as opening his mouth, but then his submissive’s got both arms around his neck and is kissing him, bright and clear and dizzying amid the crispness of encroaching night.

“I love you,” Sebastian says, forehead tipped against his. “I want you to know that. How much I love you.”

“I know,” Chris whispers back. “I know.”

He does. He knows it in his bones, and beyond: the place for incontrovertible wordless soul-deep truths.

Sebastian’s smile grows, not a blaze but a soft private flame. “I know, too. Us.”

“I’ll buy you all the dates you want,” Chris says, breathless.

Sebastian laughs. And they head inside.

They’re not the only people in the place, of course. Students, parents, space enthusiasts, tourists of all shapes and sizes, museum and planetarium patrons out for a relatively new show. Sebastian gazes around like they’ve discovered the wonders of the universe even though the show’s not even begun. Chris nudges him with an elbow. “You’ve been here before…”

“Well, of course. But not with you.”

“Oh…”

This intimate realization’s interrupted by a few people detouring over to them. One or two political activists. A mother and her son, with matching dark curly hair and dark eyes. The activists want to talk to Chris about himself and Sebastian making a statement for the next manifesto or parade or some sort of equal rights campaign. Chris agrees without really listening, for which he will later kick himself, but he’s distracted watching Sebastian smile at the mother and the teenage boy. Explaining something. Hand through his hair, crooked smile, serious happy eyes.

He waves off the persistent gratitude—he’d never been interested in being the face of a movement; annoyingly unavoidable when apparently every damn thing he did with his submissive was revolutionary—and steps back over to his husband’s side. “Hi.”

The boy’s regarding Sebastian with awed hero-worship. Chris can sympathize.

“Thank you,” the mother says to Sebastian, and then flushes. “To you both. For—you don’t know what this means. To see you two out there.”

Sebastian blushes this time. His current submissive’s collar’s just barely visible, a more subtle braided black leather that’s playing peek-a-boo with his loosened scarf. More radical reformers have burned theirs. Sebastian wears his. That’s a message, too.

The boy’s wearing a bracelet. It’s an option kids get, when they’ve just been identified but aren’t of age yet. The mother’s not wearing anything, no assumptions there, but the kid’s looking at Sebastian’s throat and the decoration and the scarf, thoughtful.

“We’re not doing much,” Sebastian demurs, and she says, “No, you’re doing everything, just being there—oh, but you were on a date, don’t let us keep you—thank you again—” and then blushes further and tugs her son away while apologizing profusely for the supposed interruption.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything, an introspective kind of silence; Chris plops an arm over his shoulders as they stop next to their row. “Told you once you were good with kids.”

“I’ve never been _around_ kids. He was…nice.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That…he deserves to be happy. That he deserves to be with someone who will make him happy.” Sebastian shrugs, or tries to; his shoulders’re still buried under the comfortable weight of Chris’s arm, and he leans in closer. “That he gets to choose. No matter what anyone else tries to tell him, he has a choice.”

Chris doesn’t say, meeting that beloved gaze, _you didn’t_. That’s oversimplifying; Sebastian’s reminded him more than once of that fact. Multiple potential suitors, after all. Options, even if he’d had to pick one among them.

Options once he’d come out. Once he’d been forced to come out. That hadn’t been a choice, and they both know it.

Sebastian’s answer, equally soundless, is simple: _I do have choices, you told me I did, you told me I could leave if I ever wanted to, and I love you._

Chris says, holding that gaze with his own, “You _are_ good with kids. Remind me to introduce you to _all_ my nieces over the holidays.”

“Inundated with Evanses,” Sebastian sighs grandly. “I’ll survive somehow. Will your mother make enough lasagna for us to take home?”

“As if the entire universe could stop her. Speaking of…”

They find seats. Chris starts to sit down. Sebastian pauses, amused plus some other emotion Chris can’t quite identify. “Here, too…well, I knew that. But I did say I’d never been here with you.”

“…oh.” He does know. Had momentarily forgotten.

Floor cushions here, too. For kneeling. Across the space, scattered other couples’re taking advantage of this fact, submission evident and casual, hands petting hair, practiced obedient postures mostly flawless.

“I could,” Sebastian says, very softly.

“Do you want to?” He tips his husband’s chin up, keeping eye contact; Sebastian likes being touched, feeling the assertion, when unsure. “Up to you. Tell me what you want.”

“And what do _you_ —”

“Nope. You.”

“Me…” Hesitation, considering possibilities, deciding. “I’d like input, honestly. I don’t want to…do the wrong thing. Here.”

Chris, equally aware of adolescent eyes watching them from a few rows back, cups Sebastian’s cheek with his hand, thumb stroking over a cheekbone. The show’s about to start; they haven’t got a lot of time.

But Sebastian did ask. That’s important. “I honestly don’t mind either way. I like you on your knees at my feet, but I only like you there if I know you want to be. I like you next to me. Easier to kiss. You’re still mine. So whatever you want, I’m good.”

And Sebastian nods.

And then breathes out, a small huff of air that’s not exactly a laugh but close. “ _Da_. All right. Sit down.”

Chris does as instructed. Sebastian takes the tilted-back chair next to him, but then pushes up the armrest between them and collects long legs into an impossibly small kitten-curl and tucks himself in under Chris’s arm, head on his shoulder.

“Definitely good,” Chris agrees, dropping a kiss on dark hair. Perfect height for that. His hand’s resting on Sebastian’s shoulder in turn; he holds on a bit more possessively, fingers firm around muscle and fuzzy sweater. Sebastian practically purrs.

The lights go down. The voice of Neil deGrasse Tyson ripples out through the universe. Explosions of color, breathtaking flares of extraterrestrial transformations. Auroras in space, full of wonder and possibilities etched in nebula rose-and-indigo.

Chris should be watching the show, and he is, mostly—he genuinely does love space travel and opening vistas and the vast brilliance of everything the human race has explored and learned and yearned toward. He’s also watching Sebastian. Who’s gazing at the stars.

Luminous supernovae and swirling event horizons spill light across Sebastian’s face. Cerulean and silver tangled in his eyelashes. A comet painting radiance across parted lips.

Sebastian adores new horizons. Science fiction. The unfolding of the secrets of the universe, and the way they’re human stories: how did we get here, where did we come from, what will life be like on Mars, what stardust flows through everyone’s veins? Chris loves that he asks those questions. Loves that the whole universe is human, all those distant twinkling stars and space-opera villains and heroes just messy complicated facets of _people_ , in those eyes.

The camera swoops through billowing Jovian clouds, an elated freefall into another world. Sebastian’s breath catches.

Chris’s fingers itch to capture the moment, to get that expression and that reverent beauty down on a sketchpad, in pencil, ink, watercolor, anything—

He doesn’t need to. He’s here and now, here with Sebastian in his arms. This moment’ll be seared into his soul forever; it’s enough to breathe in and out and taste the citrus of Sebastian’s shampoo when stray strands of soft hair brush his mouth. Sebastian’s sweater-sleeve’s delicately worn and a bit loose from being shoved up so often, and the fabric’s familiar under his hand.

The universe expands infinitely around them in kaleidoscopic ribbons, while there in the seats Sebastian reaches over to coax Chris’s spare hand into settling loosely around his wrist; Chris closes his fingers around those fine bones the way he’s been invited to, the way he always always wants to, Sebastian his by choice and unafraid to smile at him, eyes dancing, and kneel.

Sebastian puts his other hand on top as if sealing the compact. The glow of the universe washes over them, a celestial witness to promises and possibilities and joy.


	4. more photography and the proper drinking of scotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian needs some comfort and some reminding of to whom he belongs. Fortunately, Chris knows how to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also more or less canonical, but definitely future-canonical--this one takes place a few weeks after chapter one of this current collection. 
> 
> It's _more or less_ canonical because they get pretty kinky--I mean, in the sense of Sebastian lying naked across Chris's lap and being used as a table for Chris to set a glass of scotch on, and getting off on that. This will probably not come up in the main series, but I liked the idea.
> 
>  **Also minor warnings** for a crewperson leering creepily at Sebastian during the photoshoot, which is somewhat unnerving, though nothing physical happens and never will. Sebastian just needs a bit of comforting and reassurance, after getting home.
> 
> Written for [this post](http://lostromanianpuppy.tumblr.com/post/102501493255) on tumblr.

About three weeks after the coffee-pouring photoshoot incident, Sebastian gets another call about another article, this one for a fairly big-name magazine. He mentally rolls his eyes but says yes to the interview and pictures, figuring that if nothing else it’ll be a good chance to talk about his career, to praise the directors and film casts and crews he’s worked with, to talk openly and honestly about being a submissive who’d kept himself hidden for decades and how he and Chris’re handling that…

The interview does go well, and he does do all that, he really does. It’s just that he also walks into the set-up for the photo-taking part, and instantly realizes that _someone_ ’s seen photos of him pouring out coffee in a dynamic and photogenic way, and moreover that that someone’s evidently decided he needs to do it again, this time with a bottle of scotch.

He has to laugh, remembering; he catches himself glancing down, smothering the laughter behind a lip-bite, as quizzical gazes rake his face. He can’t very well tell them about the evening after, the last time; about the way he’d come home and Chris’d met him at the door, broad shoulders playfully mock-annoyed. The way Chris had put him on his knees right there, ordering him into the bedroom that way; the way Chris had taken the smooth polished length of the cane out, thoughtfully, and ordered him to strip, and smiled…

His backside tingles, recalling impacts. He’d been sore, glorious red-and-pink stripes; Chris had cuddled him after, petted his hair, let him cry through all the sensation and expiation and penance. He’d not genuinely been in trouble, and Chris hadn’t been angry; he’d needed the release, though, the shuddering tremulous breakthrough as all the hurt soaked into his bones and became ecstasy.

He can take whatever Chris wants to give. He will. Because he’s good, he’s a good submissive, for Chris.

Because he believes wholeheartedly that Chris will never ask more than he can freely offer.

So he can offer. Everything.

He grins at the scotch. It grins back. It’s on board with his vaguely-formed plan.

It’s not terribly expensive or aged; of course not, he figures, if they’re using it as a prop. He’s reading the label when the photographer comes over and says hello and explains, a bit hesitantly, what they actually want him to do with it.

Sebastian’s grin gets even wider. He can feel it.

He’ll _be_ feeling it, when Chris sees these pictures. Oh yes.

The photographer’s a skinny kid with a backwards baseball cap—which makes Sebastian smile for an entirely unrelated reason, recalling Chris and bad hair days—and impressive confidence for someone who looks like a twig-sized version of Superman. He says that the coffee pictures were gorgeous, sure, but they really want to push further with this one; they want Sebastian to be sexual and unashamed of it, to go on display right beside an article in which he publicly discusses his composer’s career and being outed as a submissive and his hastily arranged marriage to Chris and their subsequent inadvertent revolutionizing of acceptable treatment for submissives. They don’t want to hide the edges of kink and sex and desirability, and they don’t want him to play into the fragile and delicate retiring-flower stereotype either.

Sebastian says, “I believe I can do that,” and spins the bottle around, hefting the weight of it. The scotch sloshes conspiratorially. They can most certainly do that.

He’s dressed fairly simply, in a light cotton t-shirt and dark jeans; wet, they’ll cling, though without being indecently transparent. He’s mildly entertained at this consideration, though upon reflection he decides it might be only because the shoot director’s worried about Chris’s possible Dominant reaction, having not been consulted.

Or, alternately, there might be concern over a few of the crewpersons, some of whom are obviously Doms from the jokes they’re making and the way they’re shifting stances, adjusting body language, around him. He’s seen and heard a few of those comments before, and this’s nothing new: unoriginal mutters that he’d been allowed to be too independent, that Chris is too lenient, that he needs someone to put him properly in his place.

He’s married, famously so, and they’re furtive shameful whispers, so he’s not worried, but—

He is a tiny bit glad he’s not being asked to wear less.

He shrugs the glances off and tosses the bottle up and catches it. Overhead light glints from glass, from liquid, from reflectors. Sparkling. It’ll be fun, this one.

He tips the bottle up when he’s told to. Pours.

The first splash is thoroughly unintentionally hilarious, because while he’d mentally prepared for the rush of cool scotch on his skin he’d forgotten about the actual alcohol content, and so he coughs as it hits his hair and face, laughing, spluttering at the golden sting. The photographer laughs too, and Sebastian says “ _Îme pare rău,_ I’m so sorry,” rather sheepishly, and they throw another t-shirt his direction and try again.

This time it works. This time it all works.

The scotch flows down and soaks his shirt and drips from his hair and eyelashes. He smiles just a tiny bit, a hint of challenge— _you want me? you can’t handle me_ —and looks up into the spill, losing himself in it, eyes closed; looks straight ahead again, right at the camera.

Scents of peat and woodsiness and sherry casks. The chill of drying droplets and the prickle of goosebumps on his skin. The taste of intoxicating spiced malt when he swallows.

The crew applauds when the bottle runs out. Sebastian, in the spirit of the moment, tugs off his shirt—he’s all wet anyway—and runs hands through his hair and stretches. Gets another round of applause, plus wolf-whistles.

The skinny photographer, with a wicked smile, sends him digital copies immediately. Sebastian promptly forwards them to Chris without even looking, jumps into the portable shower long enough to rinse himself off, and changes into his own clothes.

And one of the men from the lighting crew—the one who’d been most vocal, making those comments—is standing outside the shower when he emerges. Not speaking, not doing much of anything. Merely staring.

Sebastian feels a shiver crawl along his spine, but the man doesn’t move, doesn’t follow him. Nothing happens. Nothing at all.

He’s nevertheless shaken to the extent that he considers getting a cab home instead of taking the subway. He doesn’t mind the subway—he’s not famous enough to be immediately recognizable on sight—and he’s never bothered buying a car; he likes trains, and takes them up to visit his mother and stepfather.

But he doesn’t feel like standing next to strangers, right now.

He also has exactly two dollars in cash in his wallet. Credit cards, yes, and his cherished Starbucks card; the latter will likely not be acceptable cab fare. He’s contemplating the credit cards when his youthful photographer appears, takes one look at his face, and says, “We’ll get you a ride home. Already called. Counting it as expenses.”

“…what? Sorry.”

“I can’t fire the crew,” the kid says, and oh at this moment he really does look like Superman, and Sebastian’s pathetically grateful, “they’re contract help from the magazine. But I saw him lookin’ at you. I’ll make sure you get home.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian breathes. “ _Mulţumesc_. I—sorry, I don’t mean to—”

“You’re not a bother.” The kid—he’s really not a kid, not with that kind of confidence, though Sebastian’s got a good ten years on him, best guess—grins, pops bubble-gum, adds, “Besides, I got a bunch of your soundtracks at home. And your classical piano album. Nice.”

“Oh…wait, which one? Not the holiday album…”

“There’s a holiday album? Why did I not know this?”

“I was a lot younger and my agent thought it’d be a good idea,” Sebastian admits, relaxing a hairsbreadth. “It…wasn’t.”

“Bet it was, and it sold like crazy, and you just don’t want to tell me.”

“I am never arranging ‘Frosty the Snowman’ for piano again. That one comes back yearly to haunt me on YouTube… Thank you.”

“Nah,” the photographer says as the cab turns up, “just send me a copy, and we’ll call it even?” and Sebastian ends up laughing after all.

He counts the minutes of the ride home. With each one, the unease falls further away, shed like unneeded skin or scales, uncovering jittery anticipation again. Chris must’ve gotten his message. Chris can touch him and hold him and let the tension drain from under his skin. Chris can give him steadiness and safe harbor.

Chris opens the door at the scrape of Sebastian’s key in the lock, a glowing mountain of muscles and neatly trimmed beard and ready smile. “Got your pictures. So…scotch this time, huh? And you all wet, in that shirt, in front of everyone, looking like you loved it…should I put you over my knee for that one? Or did you like the cane, last time, I thought you did enjoy—Sebastian?”

He starts, “I’m fine—” but then gets swept up in anxious arms, steered over to the sofa, and plopped down into cushions while apprehensive eyes and hands run up and down his body. “Tell me,” Chris says, voice rough over the words. “Please.”

He does. He doesn’t try to make it sound better or worse than it’d been. Just himself, and some jokes, and a stare that’d made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin.

Chris swears, quiet but vehement.

“I’m okay.”

“Bet we can get him fired.”

“You knew things like this might happen. _Have_ happened. And those laws haven’t yet changed. As long as he didn’t approach me, or touch me…”

“It’s not fair,” Chris grumbles, banked fires of outrage simmering at injustice. “Not to you. Not to anyone, but you—”

Sebastian interrupts _that_ one before Chris can start bringing up food-rationing childhoods and occasional rare nightmares and supposed heroic building of a new life in America. Chris means well, he knows. “Not to anyone, no. That’s why we’re doing things like this. Publicly. Speaking out. Can we send Brandon some sort of thank-you gift?”

“Who?”

“The photographer. I told you.”

“We can send him five hundred fuckin’ fruit baskets if you want. Whatever you want.” Chris lifts a hand, skims it over Sebastian’s cheek. Just barely touching, and there’s so much love and concern in the lightness that Sebastian’s heart threatens to crack wide open. “Just tell me what you want. What I can do.”

“I love you,” Sebastian says. “Tell me what you thought of this photoshoot. The ones I sent you.”

“Oh…um, okay. Sure.” Chris’s eyes still look worried. Concern in the harbor. Baby seals and ducks and gulls seeking shelter. But Chris is an artist, being asked about art, and it’s Sebastian asking. “Okay…you’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Of course. Like always. But this…you look like you’re…not scared of anything. Like you know what hiding looks like, but you’re not gonna do it anymore, you’re right out there being brave and reckless and making everybody look at you…”

Sebastian nods.

Chris goes on, encouraged by this evidence of lack of distress, “I like them in black and white. I mean, I like the color, of course, I love the way you look, but—for this the black and white’s really good. Striking. It keeps all the focus on you.”

“I believe that’s the idea.” He sighs, shrugs one shoulder, smiles. Chris is exactly right. So much right, for him. “I’m not certain where the obsession with myself and various liquids has come from—”

“Your fault. That first one. Too photogenic.”

“—but one of these days it’ll be your turn.” He finds Chris’s closest hand, toys with fingers, admits, “I’m glad you like them.”

“I do. And I love you.” Chris leans closer, drops a kiss on the tip of his nose, and then stays right there, searching his eyes. “Better, but not quite okay, yet? You want me to spank you, fuck you, put you on your knees, any of that sound good? I don’t want to hurt you. Not even the ways you like. Not now.”

“No. Not that, not now…I don’t know. Something, though. I feel…” He waves a hand. “Off-balance. Not _right_. I was thinking about you spanking me after the scotch, about punishment, but…I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” Chris says. “I might have an idea. About the scotch. Do we have any?”

Sebastian blinks. “I…think so?”

“Good. Can you stand up?”

Now both turned on and kind of insulted, he says, “Sure?” and proves it, getting to his feet, at which point Chris also gets up and looks at him with a scorchingly Dominant expression and says, “I only asked you whether you could, I don’t recall giving you an order, sub,” and Sebastian gasps out loud as the realization of command slams into his bones and gut and cock.

Chris drops character long enough to get worried all over again. “Was that okay? Not too much?”

“ _Pula mea,”_ Sebastian manages a little shakily—one obscenity he never has quite translated for Chris—“yes, I mean yes it was okay, you—more, please.”

And Chris grins, heartfelt and sweet and then deliberate and assertive. “Good. So polite, too. Such a good boy. You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

Sebastian’s almost certain he nods. He’s abruptly lightheaded and weak-kneed with desire. That’s just betrayal, both at once, he decides.

Or he would. If he could think.

“Strip,” Chris orders, soft-voiced and inarguable. “I’m getting a drink.”

Sebastian blinks again. Twice. And then hastily yanks off all his clothes, leaving them in untidy piles on the floor. And then shivers, partly out of eagerness and partly because the air’s kind of cold.

He waits, glancing around the room. Their living room. The home they’ve chosen together, century-old bones and new furnishings. High ceilings and pale walls and the bright swoops of Chris’s artwork and his own science-fiction paperbacks on their shelves. The big picture window; and he smiles, because that glass holds the memory of the night Chris’d pushed him up against it and taken him there, staking a claim on his body and making him come on command, while Sebastian shuddered with embarrassment and arousal at being put on display.

Chris comes back, glass in one hand. Scotch. On the rocks. Sebastian doesn’t ask, though Chris wouldn’t mind if he did. He doesn’t feel like knowing more than Chris wants to tell.

His cock quivers, hard and upright between his legs.

Chris looks him up and down, grins, then sits back down. In the center of the couch. Legs spread lazily, erection visibly tenting jeans. Chris is wearing one of his softly clinging henleys, dark blue today, and the fabric outlines every muscle. Sebastian’s fingers yearn to touch, but he waits for permission, and that feels good too.

“Come here.” Chris pats a thigh. “Over my lap. Face down.”

He’s still holding scotch in one hand; Sebastian moves closer but isn’t entirely sure what they’re doing. Chris only needs one hand to spank him, true, but normally likes to pet him with the other, steadying or reassurance or extra firmness; obviously Chris is making a point, but…

“Stop thinking,” Chris says. “You didn’t ask, so you want to be surprised, so stop trying to guess. Don’t think about—about earlier, about him, about anything. Just me. And I expect you to listen. And I know you can, you’re so good at this, so be good for me, okay?”

Sebastian shuts his eyes. One heartbeat. Two. Only Chris. And this space where he belongs to Chris, completely, unquestionably, suffused by the knowledge, buoyed up by it, surrounded…

He opens his eyes. Nods.

Chris beckons.

After some arranging, he ends up lying over Chris’s thighs, not quite the same position they’d normally use for a thorough spanking but close, his chest and stomach and hips balanced over Chris’s legs. Chris takes his hands and moves them behind his neck, and Sebastian obediently laces fingers together, waiting. He doesn’t question the positioning; he doesn’t need to, and that’s peaceful.

Chris runs a hand along his back, tracing the arrow of his spine. Sebastian wants to arch up against the petting like a cat, but stays where Chris wanted him, enjoying the feeling.

Something else touches his back. Something cool and slightly wet. Glass, and condensation.

 _The_ glass. Chris’s scotch. Resting on him.

Chris is using him as—as a _table_ , as service, as an place to set that drink for safekeeping—

His breath catches. Shock, mortification, comprehension, and above all a secret shameful searing delight at being used, being an object, being nothing more or less than whatever Chris wants from him, and that’s _right_ —

His hips jerk, unbidden. His cock drags against the denim of Chris’s jeans, rough scrape over sensitive flesh; and the sob falls from his throat at the deliciousness of it.

“Shh.” Chris’s other hand, the one not steadying the glass, strokes his right hip. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Unless—you _are_ okay with this, right? Color?”

“ _Verde_ ,” Sebastian whispers. Losing English. Losing words. Only shimmering blankness.

Chris knows what he means, though, because Chris always knows, and because Sebastian’s translated that one before. Green. Go on. More.

“ _So_ good,” Chris murmurs, and Sebastian wants to cry a little as the praise sinks in, as his body goes lax and calm under Chris’s soothing touch. “Stay still for me. Right here.”

He does. The world’s narrowed to simple teardrop-clear sensation. His hands at the back of his neck. The ever-so-slightly chilly air. The darkness behind closed eyes. The scent of their sofa against his cheek, still new enough to have that welcome-home hint to grey cushions. The heat and power of Chris’s body under his, clothed and strong versus Sebastian’s nakedness. The trickle of wetness as condensation pools on his back, as Chris lifts the glass, sets it down, idly trails a fingertip through water, sketching abstract shapes on vulnerable skin.

Contentment like the drift of deep tides under the sea, down in lightless serene blue-black canyons. Tranquility in the currents as they tug him to and fro, as Chris’s fingers stroke over his body.

His cock’s leaking continuous slow drips of arousal; he can feel it, can feel the patch of dampness spreading, and he likes the mild discomfort of the reminder. He doesn’t move. Even the unfulfilled ache’s splendid: he doesn’t need to get off, or maybe he is already, he’s too saturated by pleasure to tell. It’s not urgent, no rush. Simply himself across Chris’s lap where Chris has put him, where Chris has decided he needs to be right now.

His eyelashes feel a little damp, matching the evaporating rings over his back. He might be crying, he thinks distantly, but not because anything feels wrong. Because everything _feels_.

He loses track of time, floating in the blissful depths.

Something changes, after a while; the weight on his back’s gone. Chris must be finished with the drink, he concludes, after a minute’s hazy contemplation. And Chris is—talking to him, saying his name, asking him to move his hands and look up and check in.

Sebastian moves the hands as commanded and turns his face that way and opens his eyes. Chris’s expression is…

He doesn’t have words. He wouldn’t have words even if he were properly rational. Chris’s lips’re parted and his eyes are wide and full of something akin to awe but even more heart-deep and profound—

Sebastian does remember that Chris asked him to check in, asked for a color, and he can’t talk, but he can nod, so he does. They’re good.

Chris’s eyes get a little bigger and more tremulous, and the hand on his hip bites down a little harder. “So beautiful. And mine. The way you want to be, right? All mine. Coming home to me.”

Sebastian whimpers brokenly, not even aware he’s making sounds until they spill out of his mouth. Yes. Yes, please.

Chris smiles. Uses the hand on his hip to nudge him forward, making him rub himself and his heavy cock along the line of that denim-clad thigh. He moans, unable to help himself; Chris murmurs, “It’s okay, I want you to, if you can. Come like this, for me.”

And the hand’s coaxing him on inexorably, making him rock his hips into Chris’s leg, and the friction’s so good and the want’s so all-encompassing and he needs to come, suddenly, all at once; Chris has said he can, so he does, body shuddering through it as he pours out his release between himself and Chris’s thigh.

He’s shivering after, limp and dazed and lost in radiance. Chris pulls him up, pushes him to his knees on the floor-cushion—Sebastian goes willingly, lax and compliant and collapsing into no practiced or elegant position at all—and winds a hand into his hair, tilting his head back.

Sebastian opens his mouth. Chris undoes his jeans, heedless of the wet spot, and frees his cock—thick and strong and full and wet at the tip—and feeds it to him, inch by inch, deliberately slow but unrelenting. Until that tip’s pressed into the back of Sebastian’s throat and his lips are buried in curls of dark hair around the base.

He can’t process enough to contribute much, but that’s okay; Chris holds his head in place and fucks his mouth, gentle but assertive, deep powerful thrusts that fill him up and steal his air away and make him moan again, mouth wet and stretched around the girth of that glorious cock. Chris strokes hair out of his eyes with exquisite tenderness; Sebastian’s entire body lights up and trembles helplessly, so much so that he wonders whether he’s coming again, whether he’s coming on the mere touch of Chris’s hand to his cheek.

“God,” Chris breathes, “Sebastian—fuck, look at you, I can’t—I love you so much—” and then he’s coming too, buried to the hilt and pulsing down Sebastian’s throat.

He swallows it all, can’t do anything else, doesn’t want to. The taste of Chris and the heat of Chris suffuse his body. He can’t breathe much—air blocked by the immensity of that length—and that’ll be a concern at some point but not now. Now it only adds to the shivery glowing sensation, endless rapture.

 Chris, panting, pulls back. Chris’s cock smears wetness, stickiness, across Sebastian’s lips and upturned face. He loves it.

“Mine,” Chris says, fiercely loving, looking down at him as he kneels there naked; Sebastian blinks and feels the earlier tears work their way free again, sliding unchecked down his cheeks. He nods.

“Come here,” Chris says this time, and wraps arms around him, letting Sebastian rest his face against a hip and nuzzle lightly at Chris’s spent cock and breathe in and out.

Chris adds after a minute or so, half-laughing, “Not sure whether I want to do laundry today, or never wash these jeans again,” but there’s a hint of ruffled-water concern under the teasing, and his hands’re kind, tipping Sebastian’s face up. “You with me?”

“Chris,” Sebastian says. Tasting the name.

“Okay, that’s one answer, not quite what I was asking, but I’m glad you know who I am.” Chris actually bends down and scoops him up off the floor, plopping him onto the sofa, and then sprints into the kitchen and comes back before Sebastian has time to more than fuzzily wonder why. “Sit up? Water?”

His hands aren’t entirely steady. Chris holds the glass for him, and then offers chocolate-covered blueberries, one at a time. The acts of nibbling them out of firm fingers and chewing and swallowing helps, in fact. Concrete flavors. Focus.

He blinks again. “Love you.”

Chris breathes out, a suggestion of tension dissolving from broad shoulders. “—love you. Good. Okay. Here—” and then there’s a flurry of motion that ends with Chris, having lost clothing as well, tucking Sebastian in between his legs on the sofa, grabbing the fleecy Celtics blanket from its cheerfully mismatched spot on the back of the couch, and bundling them both up in it, naked and secure.

“Talk to me,” Chris says, hands rubbing his back, stroking his hair, keeping his head cradled against that chest. “I know that’s hard, sometimes. But try. Please. You looked—that went pretty far, right, for you? I didn’t expect that. Wasn’t sure you’d even be good with it. You know.”

Sebastian rests a hand over his husband’s chest. Over that heartbeat. “I was…surprised. I feel good, though. I’m sorry. I don’t have the right words.” Lighter. Hollowed out and scraped clean of any ugly stares or expectations; cleansed and put back together. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Chris announces, and kisses him. Chris tastes like scotch and concern and fondness and home. Sebastian probably tastes like come and tears and exhaustion, but Chris doesn’t seem to care. “Good, you said.”

“Yes. _Da_. Not—I don’t know if I could want that all the time, too intense—but today, right now…maybe more, we could try again, sometime…”

“If you need it,” Chris agrees, leaning their heads together. “If we decide you need it. If you’re gonna pour scotch all over yourself and flirt with cameras in public.”

“I hardly—well. Maybe I did. For you.”

“If you tell me you need to be mine. To feel safe.”

“You make me feel safe,” Sebastian whispers, and Chris tightens the arms around him and whispers back, “You make me feel safe too.”


	5. family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian calls Scott with an invitation, and a request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one IS canonical! Takes place concurrently with [A Verse, Chorus, And Such](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2492132); when Sebastian says he's going to call Scott for advice, this is Scott's POV of that phone call.

Scott’s halfway through a Pilates workout, bent in half across his bedroom floor and glaring at the perky young woman on his television screen, when his phone rings. With some relief, he flops over sideways, hits pause, grabs his phone—  
  
And then grins at the screen.  
  
He knows that number. Not because the number’s ever called him before, but because Scott is an admittedly nosy sibling and has unashamedly badgered his mother into sharing the contact information for his new brother-in-law. He just likes knowing things. And he’s been wondering how best to use this knowledge to tease his brother, only a little, affectionately.  
  
The phone’s carried on ringing. Scott, plopped ungracefully on his mat under cloud-dappled sunlight, considers this fact. He can think of several reasons his brother’s brand-new husband and brand-new submissive might be calling at ten-thirty on a mid-week morning. These reasons range from hilarious to wonderfully sweet to deeply troubling.  
  
He hits accept. “Hey, what’s up?”  
  
“ _Alo_ —oh, sorry, this _is_ Scott, yes?—I mean you are, not that I am, I mean—” A defeated pause, and a few grumbles in a liquid language Scott guesses from context is Romanian. Sebastian Stan, he thinks, internationally acclaimed Hollywood-film composer and pianist. His brother-in-law. And endearingly flustered on the phone.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sebastian says, evidently giving up. “Can I start over? This is, ah, Sebastian. I…Chris married me?”  
  
“Yep.” Scott points one leg towards the ceiling, then the other. The Pilates girl beams at him from the television, in her brightly colored outfit. “Got that. And yes, this is totally Scott. You know how cool this is, by the way? You. Calling me. At home.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“So many of my friends,” Scott informs him, “would be _so_ jealous. Are you just calling to say hi, or do you want embarrassing stories about Chris, because I am completely there for either or both.”  
  
“I…there are stories? Embarrassing ones? I was…wondering if you were free. Today. If you could…give me some advice?”  
  
“So many stories,” Scott says. “So, so many stories. I am very free. At your disposal. I mean, I’ve got a date later, not really a date, coffee with a friend, he’s a good friend, he’s a good shoulder after disastrous _other_ dates, y’know? Sorry, sorry, you weren’t asking about my life. Advice? I’m good at advice. About what?”  
  
“He sounds like a very good friend,” Sebastian offers hesitantly. “Is he…also submissive? Like…us?”  
  
“Nope, he’s a Dom, actually. But, like, a super-sweet one, all bashful about his own strength and muscles and worried about pushing people around. And he puts up with me. Was that important?” Scott eyes the phone—he’s got it on speaker so he can stretch—and inquires, “Are you asking for advice about being submissive? ’Cause I don’t know anything about being married, but bedroom dynamics I can do.”  
  
Sebastian’s quiet for a second. “…yes? I mean…about rules. Orientation. Basic training. I never had any of that. And Chris said—”  
  
Scott sits bolt upright. “Chris said what? Because I love my brother, I do, but words do not always come out of his mouth in a helpful order, and if he told you to ask me, if he made you feel not good enough or some fucked-up thing like that, just let me know, because he _is_ my brother and so I will absolutely kick his ass on your behalf.”  
  
Sebastian lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “No, no—thank you. Very much. But no. He did give me permission to call you, but it was my suggestion. I know how much I don’t know. Would you be willing to help me?”  
  
“Oh hell yes,” Scott says, still staring at his phone. He knows the story. The whole damn world knows the story. Sebastian’s scandalous. A submissive who’d never been identified, who’d kept his orientation and desires a secret, who’d been caught leaving a very specific type of club, a club with an employee willing to talk for the right amount of money…  
  
As a composer, Sebastian’s not famous in the way that, say, A-list celebrity actors are famous; but he’s well-known enough. Award-nominated. Lots of interviews and behind-the-scenes specials for those comic-book movies. Scott can only imagine the backlash. He’d seen some of it in tabloids at the time, and he’s in the industry too, albeit in the sordid and melodramatic world of soap-opera plots. The reaction hadn’t been pretty. Commentators and pundits fighting over Sebastian’s right to privacy versus social and traditional duties. Comedians making jokes about how easy it must be for Sebastian to write music for films about men in bright uniforms and tights.  
  
He’d thought it’d been ugly, even then. And he knows he likely doesn’t know even half of the ugliness.  
  
Sebastian married his brother in the wake of that very public outing. Sebastian walked down the aisle at the wedding and said yes even when visibly scared and fighting off intoxicating ceremonial drugs. Scott had been impressed, then. As a fellow submissive; as about-to-be family; as one person looking at another.  
  
And Sebastian’s here on the phone asking for his help.  
  
He says again, while the Pilates girl yields to the screensaver on the television, “Sure, yeah, how can I help, want me to come over now? Is Chris there? Am I, like, talking you through stuff?”  
  
“Only me.” Sebastian swallows. “I don’t want to—I should warn you that I trip over many things. Clumsiness. I don’t want him to see me like that.”  
  
“What, you mean learning? Trying something new? Right, because he’d suddenly hate you for having the idea, putting in the effort, and not getting it perfect the first time, yeah, okay, I believe _that_ about as much as I believe in the Easter Bunny.”  
  
Sebastian sighs. It’s a sound that needs a hug, or possibly two stiff drinks and a good talking-to about self-doubt.  
  
“You know I’m right,” Scott piles on. “You know he adores you.”  
  
“He…what? No.”  
  
Scott shakes his head mock-mournfully, even though the connection’s audio-only. This is himself, giving Sebastian Stan advice. Giving his _brother-in-law_ advice. “He does. Trust me on this, okay? I’ve seen him ogling the television screen with your face on it. I was there all fifty-seven times we watched the making-of special features about _America’s Captain_ just so he could listen to you talk about historical accuracy in the music. Seriously, my brother pretty much defines _fanboy,_ about you.”  
  
“Oh…he…really? He—but I don’t even remember what I said in those interviews!” Sebastian now sounds a bit panicked. “I’m terrible in interviews. And he’s—he makes art for me, he’s so kind, he’s too _good_ to want me, he deserves better—”  
  
He makes art for you, Scott thinks. “He’s, like, fifty million flavors of in love with you. I mean, I know you’ve known each other for, what, a week? But I know my brother. And you just told me you care what he thinks of you.”  
  
Sebastian seems to be processing this revelation. Scott waits a heartbeat or two, then adds, “But also I get why you don’t want him around for this. Chris is awesome, but he _is_ a Dom, and he’s gonna see some things differently, right? Not bad, just different. I really am glad you called, by the way. This is gonna be great.”  
  
Sebastian, somewhat tentatively, says, “I hope so.” Which is utterly precious, and makes Scott smile.  
  
He says, “I can be there in half an hour. Wear something comfortable. We can start with basic poses and situations you might run into, etiquette questions, okay?”  
  
“…yes. Scott?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Thank you. Again. And…” Sebastian might be smiling; no, almost certainly _is_ smiling. “You mentioned embarrassing stories…”  
  
“He tapdances,” Scott confides happily. “And once came to a Halloween party dressed as a banana split. Trying to impress a girl who dared him to. I’ll bring pictures.”  
  
Sebastian pauses a moment, and then says thoughtfully, “I believe I bought bananas at the store…I could offer to make dessert, later…innocently, of course. I _like_ bananas.”  
  
Scott stares delightedly at the phone. “You’re going to fit in _so fucking well_ in this family, I can see it already…my brother’s not gonna know what hit him…please, oh God please, take a picture of his face when you say that. About liking bananas. Do it for me.”  
  
“I’ll…see what I can do. Half an hour, you said? I can make coffee. Or tea. Or…have you had breakfast?”  
  
“Like half a grapefruit, why?” Sebastian Stan’s offering to cook for him. And maybe Scott’s willing to admit to being a little bit of a fanboy too, because he kind of wants to jump around atop his Pilates mat in glee.  
  
“Banana pancakes?” Sebastian inquires sweetly. Scott nearly falls over laughing, and manages, “If he hadn’t married you I might have, I don’t care if it’s not allowed, there is no _way_ you’re not part of the family now, _banana pancakes,_ what even—” and then just gives up and chortles for a while. “Poor Chris. You’re gonna be so good for him, though.”  
  
“I hope so,” Sebastian says again, very softly, and Scott knows they’re not talking about bedroom dynamics, “he deserves that. Someone…who can make him happy.”  
  
“You can,” Scott says. “You will.” There’s another untold story, one about Chris’s tattoos and loss and heartbreak and grief. He’d tried to help pick up the pieces, as much as anyone could. Had held Chris’s hand at the funeral, and after, through the anger and the sobbing and the broken cries of _it’s unfair, it’s too soon, why Matt, why HIM, we never even got to—_  
  
He won’t tell all of that one—not his story, not his right—but he might tell some of it. The edges, the shape. Sebastian deserves to know. Sebastian, he thinks, might be exactly what his brother needs to be happy. Banana pancakes and clumsiness and shyly hopeful courage.  
  
“I should get dressed,” Sebastian murmurs, and Scott’s aware that they’ve both been quiet for a minute. “Something comfortable. I remember. I’ll see you soon—you know the address?”  
  
“Yeah. Thank you for not telling me why you’re not dressed, by the way. And please _don’t_ tell me my brother ordered you to stay naked.”  
  
“I—” Sebastian actually audibly opens and closes his mouth, on the other end. Spluttering. “ _Nu_. No. I’m wearing pyjama—we didn’t—we weren’t—well, in fact we were—but he ordered me to stay warm. Is this—do we talk about things like this? Orders?”  
  
“We can if you want. Not that I need the Technicolor version, because that’s my brother we’re picturing, but sure.” Scott’s flipping off the tv, looking for non-Pilates-related clothing, wondering whether he should bring an offering of food too. He’s got some brownies. Made the night before. Maybe Sebastian likes chocolate. “Nice to have another sub in the family. Someone to talk to. And also that’s adorable. You two’re adorable.”  
  
“I’ve never had siblings,” Sebastian says, and it’s half a question. Scott fishes his left shoe out from under his bed, and announces, “You do now.”


	6. alternate chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything goes horribly wrong. Sebastian in the hospital, and Chris trying to be strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOT** canonical! NOT not not. Someone on tumblr sent me an ask about how [chapter four ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2598440/chapters/5915441)of these Extra Sugar bonus scenes might've gone differently, with Sebastian actually getting hurt, and I wasn't going to do it, but...I was in the right kind of mood today. So here you go.
> 
>  **Serious Warnings** for the aftermath of (we don't see the incident itself, but we get Sebastian in the hospital and Chris rushing to his side) brutal non-con and physical violence and trauma, and there's a lot of hurt, and definitely some hope but not a ton of comfort...
> 
> Um, I'm really sorry about this.

Chris is at home working when the call comes. He’ll forever remember that: being in the studio, having just finished up a soft pencil sketch of the June month for the calendar he’s creating, a calendar based around those Romanian fairy-stories Sebastian likes to murmur to him in hushed intimate satin-silk moments; he’ll forever recall the wood of the pencil in his hand, the way he’d turned to the phone smiling because it’s Sebastian’s ringtone and it’s probably Sebastian calling to say he’s done with the photoshoot and the magazine article, probably Sebastian eager to tease Chris with new provocative pictures, laughing and asking to be playfully scolded—  
  
Chris picks up the phone, setting down the pencil, and says, “Hey, are you done, are you heading home, want me to come meet you?” He will, if Sebastian wants that, as soon as he gets all the pencil-dust off himself.  
  
A voice that isn’t Sebastian’s asks, “Chris Evans?”  
  
Chris’s world falls apart.  
  
No. No no no.  
  
He can’t breathe. The air in his studio, previously chilly and happy, is refusing to fill his lungs. He can’t feel the chair beneath him. Can’t hear the pencil as it tumbles from the table to the floor.  
  
Not again. Not another phone call from a compassionate official voice in the middle of the day, not another person he loves lying broken in a hospital bed, or—or, God, _dead_ —  
  
Not Sebastian. Not now, not when they’ve finally found each other, built this life, put themselves together and learned how to fully _be_ together. No, please, no.  
  
He’s not aware that he’s saying so out loud until the person says, “Mr Evans—Chris—calm down, he’s alive, he’s here—Chris, can you hear me? Sebastian’s hurt, but he’s _alive,_ okay?”  
  
Alive. Hurt. But alive. Chris clutches the phone. “What—what—how—is he—”  
  
The person swallows. “He’s…let me start over, okay? I’m the photographer, my name’s Brandon, I was doing this shoot, today? And we sent you pictures earlier?”  
  
“Right…”  
  
A muffled noise in the background. Someone crying. Brandon says something, not to Chris but directed elsewhere, a question, quiet soothing. Back on the phone. “Okay, so…after, in the shower, um…God, I don’t even know how to…I called an ambulance already, they’re on the way, but he told me to call you…”  
  
“Can I talk to him? _Please._ ”  
  
Brandon hesitates. “I…don’t think he’s up to talking much. He’s…kinda in and out. Not totally, um, conscious—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I got there as soon as I could, I swear I did, but they were already—he’s, um, pretty badly hurt. Chris…I’m sorry.”  
  
“ _How_ badly?”  
  
Brandon tells him, haltingly. Men on the lighting and set-up crews who’d looked at Sebastian and grumbled. Men who’d said words about certain famous submissives being allowed too much freedom, needing to be taught a lesson, needing to be reminded of their place. Sebastian ducking into the shower post-photoshoot, rinsing scotch out of his hair and off his skin, naked.   
  
Sebastian stepping out of the shower, wet and barefoot, and finding five men waiting for him.  
  
He’d fought back. They’d hurt him. As Brandon relates, voice shaking: very badly.  
  
“Oh God,” Chris whispers. “Oh God—he—they— _Sebastian_ —”  
  
“Ambulance—” Brandon says. “I’ll stay with him, you can meet us, okay—?” and gives the name of the hospital, the information.  
  
Chris feels numb. He knows his heart’s beating, knows there’s rage and grief and sorrow stirring under his skin and along his veins. Not real yet. Not quite sunk in.   
  
He calls Scott, still numb, and hears his voice as if from a distance as it leaves a message on his brother’s voicemail. Eerily calm. Not saying exactly what happened, only that Sebastian’s hurt, that they’re going to the hospital. Scott will know how serious this is. Scott will come.  
  
Somewhere in between hanging up after the message and grabbing his car keys off the hook by the door, it hits him.  
  
He opens his hand. Stares at the keys. They offer no answers about how or why this could happen, why Sebastian, why Sebastian who’s never deserved any hurt, who’d once been so scared of his own desires and who’d married Chris with sheer courage and a hopeful heart. One set of keys, because Sebastian doesn’t own a car. Sebastian likes taking trains and gets nervous on airplanes and never uses his American driver’s license for actual driving except on rare occasions, in California for Hollywood visits, maybe, in rental cars.  
  
Sebastian’s in an ambulance right now. Beaten, and forcibly used for sex, and unconscious.   
  
Because Sebastian married him; because Sebastian fell in love with him and Chris fell in love right back; because they’ve committed the unforgivable crime of treating Sebastian, as a submissive, as a _person._ Because Chris let him go out on his own, do interviews, have a career and his freedom.  
  
Sebastian. Oh God.  
  
Chris shoves himself away from the wall and into the downstairs guest bathroom and throws up everything he’s eaten that day. On his knees, shaking, sick, he thinks that this is his fault, he should’ve been there, he should’ve come along, he should’ve never been as permissive as he couldn’t help being, he should’ve made Sebastian stay locked up at home because then Sebastian wouldn’t be bleeding—  
  
He knows that’s stupid and wrong and Sebastian would tell him as much. He knows he couldn’t have done anything differently: he could never love his husband this much and not offer freedom. Sebastian chose him, and chose this life, eyes open and willing, every time Chris asked whether he was sure. Chris knows that as well. And he hates himself even so.  
  
He has to be there for Sebastian. He has to be there now. He pulls himself together, as much as possible. Stumbles, runs, staggers, out the door.  
  
The hospital’s featureless and white and coolly uninterested in his anguish. It’s seen worse, every day; no room to spare for one more small agony. Chris, in tears, tries to explain who he is to the woman at the front desk. He can’t get words to make shapes, but she recognizes him and says she’ll have someone escort him back. He thinks he nods.  
  
He hasn’t even changed. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He dimly registers that he’s cold. Sebastian must be cold too. Sebastian, who wraps himself up in scarves and sweaters and coats whenever they go out, and blankets when they’re at home.  
  
A nurse appears, tall and statuesque and kind. She gives him a compassionate look. Chris can’t process compassion right now. He follows her through a labyrinth of IV stands and corners and hallways, to an exam room.  
  
There’s a doctor, just leaving. Chris meets her eyes, begging. The woman steers him gently to a hospital bed parked outside the room and tells him he may want to sit down. He does.  
  
She tells him that Sebastian’s seriously hurt. She tells him that Sebastian’s going to live, that that’s not currently in doubt. She tells him about head wounds, about injured kidneys that they’re monitoring, about a broken arm. Chris, horrified, whispers, “He’s a _composer_ —” and her expression softens, and she pats him on the shoulder. It’s a clean break. It’ll heal fine.  
  
She tells him that that’s not the worst. That Sebastian’s been bleeding, major blood loss, from what in clinical speak is described as violent nonconsensual anal intercourse. They’ve given him transfusions, and apparently there are such things as dissolving stitches, presently holding him together. Chris feels the world spin. Colors blur. The next thing he knows, he’s leaning over, elbows on his knees, and the doctor’s telling him to breathe.  
  
She says Sebastian’s on heavy drugs and mostly sleeping and not in pain. Chris nods. That’s good. He doesn’t know what _good_ means.  
  
She says he can go in, if he’s prepared. Chris isn’t prepared, but he thanks her, and takes a step forward, across the threshold.  
  
There’s a skinny young man sitting in a chair by the bed, holding Sebastian’s phone; the photographer, Chris understands, Brandon, the one who called him; but he’s not looking that way. And he’s not looking at the IV or the monitors or the quiet bashful lights. He’s looking at Sebastian.  
  
Who isn’t moving, lying still as—no, not death, _no_ —lying still under hospital-issue blankets. His face is white, where the bandages aren’t, and whiter where they are. His arm’s in a cast, and Chris’s brain catalogues that too. His eyes are closed, and he looks smaller than usual, dark hair shocking against pale sheets and pillows, long legs outlined by blanket-hills.  
  
Chris takes one more step. Whispers, “Sebastian…” His heart’s breaking. Crumbling. Dust inside his chest. The heat-death of the whole universe, broken by cold at last, here in this room.  
  
Sebastian’s eyelashes flutter slightly, but don’t lift. He’s breathing. He’s breathing, and Chris lets that reality become everything, his single focus, the only true piece of his own existence.  
  
He collapses into the chair that the skinny photographer hastily vacates for him. The young man says, gently, “He was awake enough to ask for you, before…”  
  
Chris nods. The photographer says, “I’ve, um. I can. If you press charges—”  
  
Chris turns to stare at him. The other man gulps, but goes on, “I found them. When they. Um. I called 911. I swear I’ll testify. Anything you need. For him.”  
  
“I can’t—” Chris rubs a hand across his eyes. Leans forward to gather Sebastian’s closest limp hand, not the one on the side with the cast, into both of his. Sebastian doesn’t stir, lost in drugs and pain. “Yes. Thank you. I can’t—think about that yet. Not now.”  
  
Brandon looks at Sebastian, too. “I know. But when you can.”  
  
“Thank you.”   
  
“I can go, I—you should be alone. With him.” As Brandon starts to slip away, though, Chris says, “Wait,” and he stops.  
  
“Thank you,” Chris says again. “For—staying with him. For being here. He’d—he’d say thank you, too.”  
  
“I know,” Brandon says, “I know he would. Call me when you need me,” and goes, leaving them alone.  
  
Chris, holding Sebastian’s hand—carefully, so carefully, and he’s very aware of how big his hands are; Sebastian’s got longer fingers but Chris has broader heavier hands overall, and that sight pierces his heart in too many ways—breathes, “I’m here. I’m here, I love you, I—oh God, I love you,” and lets the tears fall.  
  
Sebastian doesn’t move. Chris says, crying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have—I can’t—I can’t lose you, I can’t, please stay with me, please.”  
  
Sebastian’s eyelashes tremble again. Chris holds his breath, but nothing more’s forthcoming. He says, tasting salt, “I don’t know what to do, I—please tell me I can help, something, anything, whatever you need, I’m here,” and he doesn’t know to whom he’s addressing the plea, Sebastian’s sleeping form or God or some unknowable higher power: please tell me how to fix this, please tell me how to make this not have happened, please, please tell me how to _make this right…_  
  
There’s no making this right. No magic fairy-stories or time-traveling science-fiction heroes to the rescue. No fixing the broken shards of the world.  
  
“I love you,” Chris promises hopelessly. “I love you. You—you can sleep right now if you need to, okay? I’ll be right here, and—and when you wake up, I’ll still be here, and if you need to sleep more that’s okay, I’m not going anywhere, I’m staying right here.”  
  
Sebastian makes a soft little sound, in his sleep. A sigh, maybe, or a wince of pain, under all the blankets.  
  
“Anything you want,” Chris whispers. “I’ll buy you chocolate and blueberries and cappuccino ice cream. I’ll read to you. Heinlein, Bradbury, Star Trek novels, William Goldman screenplays if you feel like that. We can go away someplace if you want, I know you like the ocean, you like Italy, we could go to Venice, I’ve never been.” Sebastian makes that small whimper-sigh-exhale again, restless.  
  
“No?” Chris says, “okay, if you don’t like that one, if you don’t feel up to going anywhere, you can stay in bed and I’ll wait on you hand and foot, how does that sound? I’ll even try to learn to cook. I promise to learn to cook. I promise to do better, I promise to take care of you—better—oh God I’m _sorry,_ I’m so sorry, I love you, I—”  
  
His voice gives out. Drowned. He leans forward and rests his head against their joined hands. Tears burning his skin.  
  
But there’s movement, there’s pressure, there are fingers curling back around his, touching his face. He looks up.  
  
Sebastian’s looking at him. Awake. Lips shaping his name.  
  
Chris tries to talk. Chokes on emotion, on syllables, on love.  
  
“Chris,” Sebastian breathes again. “You’re here.”  
  
“I’m here,” Chris says, “I’m here, I’m here—” and moves to kiss him and then stops himself, terrified, trembling.   
  
Sebastian’s crying too. Shimmering drops of crystal, spilling out of blue skies. “Please—you can, please—”  
  
Chris nods mutely, frantically, desperately, and kisses his husband. The hospital bed enfolds the moment in protective arms, and keeps it private forever.  
  
He doesn’t try to push. It’s a gentle kiss. No force at all. He thinks Sebastian’s smiling, and he can’t imagine why, but when he pulls back he discovers it’s true. “You…”  
  
“I’m all right.” Sebastian tries to sit up a bit more. Casts a wry glance at his arm, at his body under the blankets. “I mean…not all right. I’m hurt and I’m scared and I’m on a lot of drugs. But…” His fingers squeeze Chris’s. His eyes are steady; a little hazy from shock and medication, but unwavering. Chris’s lifeline, here at a hospital bedside, and they both know it. “I’m still here.”  
  
“I love you,” Chris says. All he’s got left. “I love you.”  
  
“I love you.” Sebastian closes both eyes for a moment. “I’m very tired. I knew you’d come, though.”  
  
Chris becomes aware that he’s crying again when he tastes fresh salt and water on his lips. “I’m sorry I wasn’t—wasn’t here sooner…he said you asked for me…you should rest, if you’re tired…”  
  
“Don’t…” Sebastian shifts position, then stops to breathe, face abruptly whiter. “Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.”  
  
“I—”  
  
“It isn’t.” Sebastian’s eyes are very blue, and very certain. “You didn’t do this. They did.”  
  
“I didn’t take care of you,” Chris whispers, Chris confesses. His worst sin. “I promised to keep you safe. I wanted to—”  
  
“I know.” Sebastian’s breathing faster again, uneven, and one of the monitors lets out a concerned trill. “You do. My husband. My Dom. You always make sure I’m safe. Chris, I—something hurts, I’m sorry—”  
  
Chris spins toward the door. Shouts for help. Feet patter in the distance.  
  
“I love you,” Sebastian whispers. “No matter what happens. I chose you. You asked me once whether I wanted to leave you, and you gave me freedom if I wanted it, and I wanted you. I knew what we were doing. I wouldn’t change things.”  
  
“Please—” Chris is clinging to that hand too tightly. Sebastian’s not squeezing back anymore. “Please don’t leave me, I love you, I _need you—”_  
  
One corner of Sebastian’s mouth curls into that beloved wide kitten-smile. “You…oh, Chris…I always needed you…even before I met you…and you’re here now. We’re okay. It’s okay.”  
  
The doctor and a small armada of nurses flood into the room. They ease Chris out of the way, kindly but inarguably, as Sebastian’s eyes close.  
  
“No,” Chris says, very small and unheard. “No.”  
  
They get him out of the room.   
  
Hours go by. Emergency surgery. Internal injuries worse than they’d thought. No other news. Scott turns up, pale and scared and nevertheless trying to be a pillar of strength. Chris’s mother’s on the way from Boston. Chris thinks that someone needs to call Sebastian’s mother. He can’t, even when he opens up his contact list on his phone and stares at her number. Eventually Scott takes the phone away and does it for him.  
  
Night falls. They sit in the waiting room. Waiting.   
  
Scott offers to go get coffee. Chris initially shakes his head, but realizes how jittery his brother looks, how much Scott needs something to do—to do for him—and says yes.  
  
The coffee’s hot and probably terrible but he can’t taste it. He stares into the black of it. The steam brushes his face in mournful frightened sympathy. Sebastian would’ve laughed and written it into a symphony, memorializing it forever.  
  
Scott gets up to pace. Chris stands up too, and knocks over Scott’s abandoned half-full coffee-cup on the arm of the chair, and swears, and looks around despairingly for any way to clean it up. To fix that much.  
  
He’s sitting on the floor with a handful of restroom paper napkins when there’s a tap at the frame of the waiting-room door. He looks up.  
  
“He’s all right,” their doctor says, exhausted and triumphant, “we had to remove that kidney, and he’s not out of the woods yet, it’ll be a tough twenty-four hours, but he’s still with us,” and Chris sits absolutely still on the floor beside the brown coffee-puddle and forgets how to breathe.  
  
They bring him back—a different room this time—and let him see Sebastian again. Sebastian’s heavily sedated this time and won’t wake up, they tell him, for at least an hour, maybe two, so he shouldn’t expect much. Chris, shaking with relief and terror, says he understands, and he curls up into the chair by Sebastian’s bed and holds Sebastian’s unmoving hand and watches every rise and fall of that chest.  
  
They’re here. It’ll be a long road. It’ll be a dark and unpredictable road, full of potholes and nightmares and monsters. There’ll be so much to face. He can’t even begin to comprehend it all. Trauma, recovery, survival. A trial, bringing those men to justice. The scrutiny of the world brought to bear on the untraditional revolutionary submissives’-rights elements of their otherwise traditional marriage.  
  
Days when Sebastian might not be able to look at him, or be touched, or even think about being touched. The understanding that Sebastian may never want to be touched again. Chris wants to weep, and only doesn’t because he’s out of tears. And first they have to get through the next twenty-four hours.  
  
But they’re here. Sebastian’s alive. Chris holds that hand in his.   
  
Sebastian’s the strongest person he knows. He’s believed that since the first day they’d met, the day they’d signed the marriage contract, the day Sebastian’d walked down the aisle to him and said yes. He will believe that always.  
  
He says, “I love you, and I’m here,” and holds Sebastian’s hand, and has hope.


	7. at a party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much Chris and Sebastian taking time out in the middle of a party to enjoy themselves in the men's room. Porn with emotions! And blueberries!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one IS canonical! It takes place, not immediately after, but not too long after, [story six, A Sure Type Thing,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2746376) aka the one in which they finally said I love you.
> 
> Written for [feanorinleatherpants](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanor_in_leather_pants) as a birthday present! 
> 
> Contains fairly explicit D/s sex, in case we need the warning. Oh, and the drink Chris orders for Seb is a fancier version of [this one.](http://www.hamptonroadshappyhour.com/chocolate-covered-blueberry-martini)

_Chris_

Springtime in Boston. Sea-salt air and pale green shoots of life and seasonal ale, citrus and honey-malt. A ballroom and a lavish black-tie party. Chris breathes in, and out, exhaling.

Of course, being from Sudbury, he’s not properly from _Boston,_ and several people’ve cheerfully mocked him for this over the course of the night. He’s a native son, sure, but only just. Here at this city-council hosted arts benefit, he’s both a local hero and the target of goodnatured ribbing.

He loosens his tie with his spare hand. Breathes some more. This motion gets Sebastian to look over at him; not difficult when Sebastian’s inches away with Chris’s other hand resting on his shoulder. Cool blue eyes warm—love, affection, a hint of concern—when they search his face.

“I’m okay,” Chris says. Mostly true; he’s better at meeting people one on one, less so with crowds, even less so when the crowds include art critics and politically powerful bodies and men and women he needs to impress. But here they’ve been kind for the most part, genuine for the most part, happy to have him at a benefit event for youth arts programs; and the anxiety’s present but content to lurk in the cave at the back of his head and watch for now.

He squeezes Sebastian’s shoulder a bit more tightly. Sebastian leans into the touch. Chris says, “Are _you_ okay?” and then also, “And you’re fuckin’ brilliant,” which is true. Sebastian’s better with crowds and external friendliness than Chris himself, in some ways: Sebastian’s not precisely eloquent, no, but the very awkwardness’s thoroughly endearing, and while Sebastian might not have fluid words on tongue-tip he does have the kind of innate adorableness that makes every person in the room want to hug him or have sex with him, possibly at once.

Sebastian’s also wearing Chris’s collar, of course.

Sebastian’s Chris’s husband and submissive, contracted and married, and Sebastian’d spent years hiding because of precisely this: the collar, the possession, the public owning. Chris swallows. Gazes at those pale blue eyes and all that gathered courage. Here at his side, summoned up for him.

Half the people in the room have subs along, and attire ranges from the subtle—a single diamond on a fashionable delicate chain-collar—to the opposite. One or two’ve brought leashes. That’s presently considered a bit tacky here among the sort of set who’d go to an arts benefit and donate to charity. Good submissives of a particular quality should be well-trained enough to not require that—though of course some people simply like the feeling. Chris has one leash, at home—it’d come as part of the set, with the collar. It’s never left the box.

Sebastian skims fingers over his throat, over black leather visible above the line of his suit-collar. It’s an unconscious expressive and heartbreaking gesture. Chris isn’t sure he’s aware he’s done it. “I’m all right.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you worrying about me so you don’t have to worry about them?” A head-tilt at the mayor, at a bustle of businessmen. “They’re thrilled we’re both here. We’re fine, Chris, I promise.”

All of this is true. The organizers of this benefit have gotten two for one, really: Chris Evans, relatively well-known artist and painter and dabbler in animation, and his husband and submissive, Sebastian Stan. Who just so happens to be an internationally famous composer, pianist, and scorer of blockbuster Hollywood films.

Sebastian’s probably a bigger coup for this Boston hometown night than Chris himself is. He’s certainly spent most of it being hounded for details about the next superhero epic, anyway, especially once the glittering upper-crust horde figured out that Chris wasn’t going to enforce any rules about his submissive and permission to talk.

Chris doesn’t _need_ to enforce that one. Might be a bit on the lenient side, but he doesn’t care, and it works for them. Sebastian’s his; incontrovertible, no matter how many people ask for autographs or upcoming script details. Besides, watching his husband be adored by fans, well. That’s exactly how the world should be.

He grins. That’s kind of an awesome thought, and always will be. Sebastian Stan, his husband. His.

Sebastian arches an eyebrow at him. “You look far too entertained.”

“Thinking about you. Nobody’s pounced on you for, oh, must be two minutes.”

“Not for lack of trying. The tall man in the poorly-fitted suit over on your left keeps making hand gestures at me. He either wants me to shine his shoes or something else far more obscene.” Sebastian shrugs, one-shouldered—not the shoulder occupied by Chris’s hand—and resignedly dismissive. They both know that public opinion’s fairly divided on their marriage, too. Chris is more than just a _bit_ on the lenient side, say the tabloids and late-night comedians.

The tabloids and late-night comedians and even the cheering reform-movement sympathizers can all go to hell. They love their jokes and their symbols. They don’t know Sebastian. They don’t know Chris. They aren’t in this marriage.

Because Chris is wholeheartedly in this marriage and fiercely in love, he says, “Want me to go punch a tall guy in the face for you? Also I love you.”

“No, thank you. To the former, not the latter. I love you as well. No throwing punches just yet, please.” Sebastian touches fingertips to his collar again. “Kiss me?”

“Hell yes,” Chris agrees, and yanks his husband into his arms. Mouths crashing together, defiant and joyous; Chris’s hand in Sebastian’s hair, tipping his head back, which is one of Sebastian’s unfailing triggers and gets a quiet moan and boneless melting against him. Chris trails kisses down from his lips, onto his throat, and bites down lightly; Sebastian whimpers. Chris is aware that they have an audience, that this is being discussed and analyzed and photographed even as it happens, and it’ll get ruminated over by submissives’-rights groups and traditionalists alike. Sebastian wants this, wants to be publicly claimed. Chris wants that too. And if society approves of this assertion, that’s just fine, because it means they can do it more.

They do have an audience, though, and Chris backs off with reluctance. Bad taste to shove his sub to the floor mid-party. Very bad. Shouldn’t. Right.

Sebastian puts both arms around his neck. Hides his face in _Chris’s_ neck, tucked down against his collarbone, for a few seconds. It’s half, or maybe a little less than half, a performance; Sebastian knows as well as Chris that his level of submission and compliance is being noted and remarked. The mark on his throat won’t bruise, but it is pink, and it sits visibly and meaningfully above his collar.

After a short pause, the rustle and chatter of the evening starts up again. Discussions of art, of donations, of money and property. Of etiquette and societal structure and institutions.

Sebastian presses lips to the line of Chris’s jaw, a quick kiss. He’s breathing fast, but he feels steady and comfortable in Chris’s arms. Chris doesn’t apologize, only reaches up to touch his face, to cup his cheek. Sebastian smiles, and holds his hand, and says hello when a delegation of local arts teachers and community programmers approach.

After a while they end up over at the bar. It’s open and freeflowing, no doubt in order to encourage reckless contributions and donations. Sebastian tips that head, smiling at him again, soft and wide and ever so slightly teasing; they’re fine, they’re good, they’re wonderful. The last remaining knots in Chris’s chest unbend and ease away.

He orders a beer for himself, local brewery, supporting his home and all that; and considers his husband thoughtfully. Sebastian, taking this pause to mean that Chris wants him to order for himself, opens his mouth.

“—and he,” Chris says to the bartender, “will have a chocolate blueberry martini, use the Stoli Blueberi, extra crème de cacao, chocolate rim, two blueberries as a garnish, please.”

Sebastian stares at him. That enchanting mouth actually falls open more. _Definitely_ from lust.

The bartender says happily, “Always nice to see a man who knows what he wants,” and sets about it.

Chris grins at Sebastian. Sebastian manages to close his mouth, but then tries to say something else, stops, and steps closer to him, close enough that they end up pressed together, chest and hips and thighs.

The moment stretches out. Like heartbeats matching, in time.

Their drinks arrive. Chris, without looking, picks up the martini glass. Holds it to Sebastian’s lips. This isn’t a performance; nobody’s paying attention except for their fascinated bartender and the equally fascinated bottles of liquor on their shelf. This is for them, for the two of them, not including the bartender.

Sebastian swallows. Swallows again. Drinks what Chris gives him, what the press of glass against his mouth demands.

About halfway through he pauses to let Sebastian breathe and recover a little. Sebastian makes a tiny breathless needy sound when Chris lifts the glass away. Those blue eyes’ve gone dark and hazy, heated and intoxicated with alcohol and desire and command and surrender. Chris skims a thumb over his lips, catching a stray drop, and licks it. Blueberries and chocolate and burning sweetness explode over his tongue.

He rests the thumb back on Sebastian’s lower lip, indenting plush skin. Sebastian’s eyes slip shut and slowly open, dreamy.

 

_Sebastian_

He’s completely lost track of time. Space. Everything but the heat of Chris beside him and the taste of alcohol-swimming blueberries and chocolate and cream. The world could be ending, and he’d die lost in sweetness.

Chris takes away the glass a second time. Puts a large hand on his neck, fingers brushing the earlier mark. Pleasurable pain shoots through his body; it’s not much hurt, Chris didn’t break skin, but the spot feels tender and the sensation seems to be magnified a thousandfold. He’s dimly aware that they’re still in public, still at a party, doing…something…to benefits arts programs, music and drawing and theater, and that’s a really good cause…

His head feels heavy, clouded. He wants to sink to his knees. He can’t—or maybe he can, that’s allowed, isn’t it? He’s Chris’s. If Chris wants to give him orders at a party, in full view of everyone…

“Hey.” Chris’s hands’re warm and gentle and firm on his face. “I love you. That kinda worked more than I thought it—I mean, I thought it might, you like me deciding what you get to have, I get that, but I didn’t think you’d—okay, God, men’s room, right fuckin’ now—”

They end up in, yes, a men’s room. Sebastian doesn’t remember how they’d gotten there. Chris wedges the door shut with a helpful trash can. One arm remains around Sebastian. They’re the only ones in the space, just them and the quiet.

It’s a very nice men’s room. Opulent. Stone countertops housing curious bowl-shaped sinks in a row. Fabric hand-towels in discreet deferential baskets, and the general atmosphere of the more upscale and decadent palaces of Italian Renaissance princes, the sort who’d get up to all kinds of debauchery on gilt-edged sheets.

Sebastian, drifting between heartbeats of bliss, catches a glimpse of himself in the scroll-edged mirror over the sinks. He almost doesn’t recognize himself; experimentally, he touches his throat, his lips. The person in the mirror has huge dark eyes and flushed cheeks; the person in the mirror looks otherworldly, languid, a creature of sensation and ecstasy and wanton desires. The sight’s sobering and intoxicating, a shivery tingling paradox; Chris comes to stand behind him, sliding a hand up to cover Sebastian’s, to press both weights against his throat.

“Love you,” Chris says once more, hushed. “I’m going to fuck you. Um. If you want that. If you say yes, right now, then I’m going to take you right fuckin’ here.”

Sebastian whispers, feeling the word like a butterfly in his mouth, tremulous wings and transformation, “Yes, please.”

Chris swears, a bitten-off exclamation of profane reverence. And shoves him back against the sink-row and kisses him, not gentle this time. Demanding, hasty, sloppy, claiming. Sebastian moans.

Chris spins him around, bends him over the sinks, fumbles with suit-trousers. There’s a small plastic pop, endlessly echoed in the stillness; lube, Sebastian realizes belatedly. He kind of wants to ask where Chris got it and whether that’s been in a pocket all along, but the question doesn’t form, and he falls back into the rainbows, waiting peacefully.

Chris works him open fast, the right side of too rough, impatient and beautiful. Every touch is glorious, spun into exquisite color by too-swift martini consumption and the all-encompassing nearness of Chris, who pushes into him with that cock, thick and blunt and familiar by now. Sebastian whines and sobs and begs for more, bent over the sink in the men’s room being fucked by his husband in the middle of a party. The mirror-versions move with them, too intimate, too vivid and raw; he shuts his eyes even as his body inadvertently clamps down around Chris’s length, shuddering in shocked pleasure.

Chris wraps fingers into the back of his collar. Pulls his head up. “You were looking. Look.”

He does. At them. At himself, taken and impaled and loving it, opening up and pleading for more, obscene as artwork in his once-expensive suit, jacket and shirt still on, pants around his ankles. His breath splinters in his lungs. Too much, too much, but Chris ordered him to watch, ordered him to see, and those loving artist’s fingers tug his collar tighter and he can’t look away—

He tries to scream, tries to sob, as the next thrust slams into that spot inside him. Chris is still talking, saying words, but the words vanish in white heat. He stops processing. Stops thinking. Nothing left but waves of rapture, the pumping of Chris’s cock inside him, the languor of his own body where he’s caught between the sinks and his husband’s support.

More heat closes around his cock. He’d not even realized how badly he’d been craving that, just one more yearning as his hips rock into empty air, but now there’s a hand stroking him—stroking _hard,_ too, ungentle and almost punishing, and he wails. Chris jerks on his collar; he coughs, can’t quite breathe, struggles for oxygen, and Chris shoves him down against the solid stone of the countertop and, oh, that’s Chris coming, spilling inside him, filling him up with it—

He’s begging with his whole body now, arching up as Chris pours that hot slick release into him. He can feel it inside him, can feel Chris flooding him with it, and he’s growing lightheaded from that and the grip on his collar. Chris bends down and breathes, _“Mine,”_ hot and possessive against his ear. Sebastian sobs helplessly: yes, yes, yes, please, all of him, he’s Chris’s, please.

Chris whispers, “Come,” and rubs his cock once more, thumb stroking that too-sensitive spot on the underside.

The world winks out. Like a thunderclap, blinding and deafening and electric; nothing like that at all, because there’s no sound and no sight, just a sheer frozen moment, hanging suspended in time.

He wakes up to find himself being ferociously cuddled in Chris’s lap on the men’s room floor. Chris has pulled his own pants back up, though not Sebastian’s, which’re remaining around his ankles while a few of those convenient hand-towels soak up the mess. Chris is talking more, anxious flow of disjointed words, vows of love and requests to wake up and promises that they’re okay and promises that Sebastian can rest if he needs to and promises that Chris will be here and never hurt him. Chris’s hands’re petting him, restless and trying to affirm that they are in fact here.

Sebastian smiles, mostly to himself, and opens his eyes. Chris stops talking mid-babble—something about buying Starbucks on the way home and taking care of his throat—and regards him with big apprehensive hopeful eyes.

“I feel wonderful,” Sebastian tells him—whispers, really, because his voice is entirely shot. He can’t imagine what he looks like now. Collar-bruises. Finger-bruises on his hips. Sweat-damp hair. Sticky release drying and dripping between his thighs. He feels weightless and exhausted and radiant. “ _Te iubesc._ ”

“You do?” Chris’s tone’s apologetic, wistful, wanting to believe; Chris has delicious Dominant instincts, and Chris loves him, and Chris knows how much every public appearance costs him, when Sebastian’d spent so long being so afraid that submission meant losing himself and the life he’d painstakingly built.

Or Chris thinks he knows; Sebastian ends up smiling once more. Chris knows how hard it’s been in the past. It’s better, not easy but better, with acres of Boston-boy muscles and kindness at his side.

“If we go back out…” Chris hesitates. “They’ll all know. What we were doing. What I—did to you.”

“ _To_ me?” Sebastian, even being cuddled in his Dominant’s lap, manages to raise both eyebrows at that. “As if I wasn’t right there with you. Honestly, Chris.”

Chris breathes out, someplace between a sigh and a laugh: a release of tension, as he coaxes Sebastian’s chin up for a kiss. “Will you mind? Them knowing.”

“I’m yours,” Sebastian says, leaving kisses in turn at the corner of Chris’s mouth, on his nose, on his cheekbone. “I’m not saying I’d like to stand around and make small talk and be stared at. But I don’t mind people knowing. If we have to walk through them all to leave.”

“There’s a side door,” Chris sighs, resting his cheek in Sebastian’s hair, one hand playing idly with Sebastian’s spent cock. Sebastian whimpers, overstimulated, oversensitive, enjoying the handling. “People’ll still see us, but we can kinda sneak around the walls. And I can take you home.”

In Romanian, very softly, Sebastian whispers, “I’m not afraid of wanting this.” He knows Chris won’t understand; Chris makes a face at him. “Tell me important things in languages I understand, please.”

“I’m not afraid of wanting you,” Sebastian says this time. In English. Out loud. “I’m not used to this yet. They can look. But I don’t want to—to look at anyone. Directly. Too…big. I think that’s the word. But I’m glad that we can.”

“That we can do this.” Chris turns his head, kisses Sebastian’s temple, peeks down to make eye contact. “Yeah. And—thanks.”

“For what,” Sebastian murmurs, though they both know. The reminder: _with,_ not _to._ “Yes.”

“So,” Chris says. “Want to get off the men’s room floor and let me help you get dressed and then come home with me where I can feed you blueberries in bed, and also I love you, in case I didn’t say it before, I fuckin’ love you.”

“I love you,” Sebastian agrees, testing limbs, uncurling reluctantly from his ball in Chris’s lap, shamelessly burrowing into Chris’s arms when they go back around him, “and I also love your ideas about blueberries.”


	8. mothers, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris goes to see Sebastian's mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one IS canonical, and takes place before the first story ([Like O, Like H](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1820722)); here's Chris actually making the offer for Sebastian's hand.

Chris squares his shoulders. Gulps back his anxiety. Knocks on the door. It’s a heavy solid door, with a neat wavy glass-plane insert; the artist in him wants to know all about glass-cutting and the challenges of design in a new medium, and he’s very aware that he’s thinking about glass so he doesn’t have to think about what he’s about to do.

The person on the other side’s taking a while. Unless that’s the anxiety fretting. Maybe it’s only been two seconds. Maybe Chris’s heart should take a deep breath and calm the hell down. Maybe this person won’t like him, maybe she’ll send him away, maybe he knew it was a long shot anyway and he can’t imagine hearing the yes—

He’s gotten one _yes_. Handwritten. On heavy creamy paper, thick and plain and luxuriously textured. It’s that yes that matters simultaneously most and least of all.

He hasn’t brought that note with him. It’s against all proper rules. No contact before the family’s made a decision.

He wishes, standing outside—how many seconds does it take to open a door?—that he had. That he could reach into the folder he’s carrying and touch the lines of pen on paper. The lines pressed there by a composer’s hand.

He wonders what he’ll hear when he’s allowed in. If he’s allowed in. The sunlight of upstate New York shimmers down benevolently upon his back and shoulders. Late afternoon. Teatime, if that’s still a time, and he wonders whether anyone besides historical societies has tea-parties and what one does at a tea-party in the present-day and who on earth actually _likes_ cucumber sandwiches, and it’s at this point that the door opens.

Chris, confused by the cucumber sandwiches, trips over nonexistent words.

Sebastian Stan’s mother raises both eyebrows at him.

Chris attempts to offer his hand, realizes he’s got the folder under that arm, swears—thank God only mentally—and switches arms and tries again. “Um. I’m sorry—I mean I’m Chris. Evans. Sorry.”

Sebastian Stan’s mother is beautiful in the way that aged porcelain is beautiful: a work of art that’s held together despite cracks and time and upheavals in the world. She’s got the same dark hair and blue eyes and fair skin as her son, though she’s shorter and less long-legged; she moves with the same musician’s grace, unconsciously aware of rhythms in the universe, though in Sebastian that grace is combined with and occasionally challenged by enthusiasm and excited exuberant hand-gestures and distracted walking-into-doors. Chris has seen as much in interviews and red-carpet footage; has smiled every single time.

Meeting her eyes now, he understands that both this woman and her son are equally strong: every inch of them has known survival and a chance to start over in a new land. He doesn’t mean that in a patronizing way; he knows that doesn’t matter, though, and if he tries to say it he’ll say it wrong. He knows he’s not that strong, himself.

He knows he’s watched Sebastian Stan laugh and blush endearingly in a pre-Oscars interview and give credit to the film’s actors and director and cast and crew: to everyone except himself, though one of those nominations’d been specifically for his work as the composer. He knows he wants to smile when he sees Sebastian smile.

He thinks that he’ll be kind, at least. Of everyone who’s written or sent cards or attempted to be Sebastian’s contracted Dominant in the wake of that too-public outing, Chris might not be able to promise the best marriage settlement or the firmest hand or the most political connections. He’s aware. But he’s listened to Sebastian’s music. He’ll never forbid Sebastian his art; other people might, might take that away under the guise of caring control. Chris can say honestly that he’s loved Sebastian—albeit from a wistful hopeless faraway fanboy distance—for that music, for the shy sweetness, for himself, before this chance ever arose. Chris can promise to be kind.

He hopes this woman sees that, or a little of that, or something, in his gaze.

She says mildly, “You are, yes,” and Chris panics because he’s forgotten whatever he just said.

His name. And apologies. Right. Hell.

She waves him in with a gracious hand. Chris, feeling too tall and awkward in every possible way, goes.

The house is musical and literary and gracious too. It’s the dwelling-place of two people who love teaching and books and playing music for each other, and it settles in to eavesdrop on the conversation comfortably. It’s not Sebastian’s current home—Chris knows he lives in New York—but it’s got lots of memories. They hang on the walls and remind him that he’s a stranger here, though an invited one.

Sebastian’s mother ushers him into the living room and offers him tea or coffee. Chris accepts the coffee meekly. It’s stronger and more ferocious than he’s used to, for all that he drinks coffee in general black; she smiles a little at his expression. “I apologize. I should have offered you sugar. My Sebastian, he does not touch my coffee without sugar.”

“Really?” Chris looks at the cup. It’s tiny and deadly. “I believe it.”

“Here.”

“Um,” Chris says, regarding offered sweetness. “If this is…some sort of test about my willingness to drink unsweetened coffee to prove how much I want to be here, then I will totally drink this as it is, right now?”

She laughs. Thank God. “It isn’t. A test. Though…” Blue eyes sparkle; Chris recalls seeing the exact same light in her son’s face when asked about character themes and storytelling. “…thank you for the idea. Trial by ordeal, _da_? As princes must.”

Chris takes another sip of dragon’s-breath coffee. “Princes…”

“Yes.” She sips her own. Unruffled. “My son is not a damsel in distress, Christopher. If you think that you are rescuing him, because of what occurred…”

“No!” Too fast, too loud. Damn. “No. I wasn’t—he doesn’t need rescuing. He’s—he made a life for himself already. He doesn’t need me. I mean, yeah, someone, maybe—society will—but that’s other people. They think he should need me. But I just…” Giving up: “He deserves someone who wants him. Who wants _him,_ not a celebrity submissive. And I do.”

“And you think the other suitors do not.”

“I don’t know.”

“But you do.” The clink of china against coaster is very small and very loud. “You want me to give you my son.”

Chris bites his lip. Turns the cup in his hands: delicate whiteness cradled in broad palms. “You want me to say yes? Yeah. I do. I could tell you I’ll be generous with the settlement. I could tell you his music makes me smile. Or cry. I can’t tell you I love him. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. But I’ll try to make him happy. I know you don’t know me either, you don’t have any reason to believe me, but I swear that’s true.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

“No,” Chris says, understanding, gaze falling before that brutal truth. The coffee’s dark and silent in its cup. “No, it wouldn’t. I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t change anything.”

“No. My son needs a Dominant—that is an unfortunate truth at this particular moment—and he told me he prefers you.”

Chris, shocked, snaps his gaze up. Nearly drops the miniscule scorching coffee-cup. Fumbles it onto the table. “He _said_ —”

She waves a regal hand. “You may spill what you like upon my carpet; it has hosted too many of my husband’s students, over the years, the ones who needed someplace to go. You understand that I also was surprised. He never told me. Any of it.” And for a moment her eyes glitter with fierce half-wistful pride: Sebastian’d kept his own orientation a secret and protected her, kept her from having to imagine her only child submitting to cruel or sweet or painful or capricious desires or commands. “He told me he knew your art. He said that he would like to know you.”

Chris isn’t sure whether Sebastian’s told his mother about the sketch, blue and grey colored pencil from Chris’s hurried hand, and the answering single-word reply. He keeps that secret, if it is one. “You agreed to meet with me. Thank you.”

“To make him happy? I would do anything.” Her gaze, bluer and deeper than Sebastian’s pale aquamarine but equally passionate, regards him like steel would, across the truce-flag of the sofa. She’s Sebastian’s only blood relative, though it’s somewhat irregular, with Sebastian having been identified so late. She should make this decision as a Family Head; she should make this decision based on what she believes her family needs, Chris knows. “You are the first one I have so far met. Of his suitors.”

“Are there…others?” He’s imagining a line. Himself departing in clumsy haste, bumping into the next man or woman walking up the path to the door. Of course so many people want Sebastian. Beautiful, brave, intelligent, never contracted to anyone; not a virgin, given the type of club he’d been discovered leaving, but virginal in the sense of proper bindings and rituals and instruction, so whoever won him might have the training of him…

“That have asked? _Da_. That we have agreed to meet? Only you.”

Chris, processing the _we_ and the amount of autonomy Sebastian must be used to, breathes, “Me?”

“You sent me your offer.” She picks up her cup again. “I have read it. Your financial terms are acceptable. Your contractual terms are more or less acceptable. I require an extra clause. If he wishes to come home, at any time, you will not forbid it.”

That’s not a standard provision. But, then—Sebastian’s not a standard submissive. It crosses Chris’s mind suddenly to wonder where Sebastian’s stepfather is. Not a blood relative, no, and strictly speaking he doesn’t have to be here, but—wouldn’t a man want to meet the first suitor offering for the son he’s raised as his own?

He says, slowly, “That’s not usual—”

“I have my reasons. But I am not _un_ reasonable; you may dictate the length of a visit.” Her mouth tenses slightly, fleetingly. “We may need him here, however.”

“—I was saying,” Chris points out, “that it’s not usual, but fine. Okay. Anything else?”

Blue eyes show a hint of surprise at the lack of argument. Chris would be insulted, but he’s pretty sure most traditional Doms would be a lot more annoyed, so the reaction’s fair. She takes a sip, lowers her cup. “You will not…hurt him.” With a lifted hand: “I do not wish to know my son’s bedroom details. I can’t—” That tension again. The thought of Sebastian in pain, however willingly; Chris understands. “But you will ascertain his likes and dislikes, and you will not cause him needless hurt. Clear?”

This is also not usual, but: “Agreed. I’ll write it in and send you an updated version. And, um—I know we’ll—we don’t know—we’ll need to get used to each other—I mean, standard compensation clauses, if he gets hurt or something happens, I mean not just in the bed—I mean anything, I’ll cover all of that.” It’s more or less standard for Dominants to assume those responsibilities, but not a legal requirement, and some refuse to or simply can’t afford to on their own. Chris can afford it, and won’t refuse to. “Medical expenses, whatever, everything.”

Her eyes do something complicated. Not a wince. Too much self-control, a performer poised on stage. “Of course. I would expect so, from my son’s Dominant.”

“Is that…I mean, are we…am I…”

“Is this a yes?” She looks at the far wall. A family portrait, plainly from a decade previous. Three people, two related by blood; all of them beaming at the camera. Happy. “You have never signed a binding contract before. Not long-term. And you are also proposing marriage.”

“No. I mean yes. I mean I’d want to get married too, yeah.” It’s not required—they could sign a long-term or lifetime contract without marriage, and most traditional Dom/sub pairs do. On the other hand, anyone, even baseline pairs like Sebastian’s mother and stepfather, can get married; it’s a different set of rights and social expectations. Chris is offering both. He hopes that maybe this is a desirable proposal, at least in this specific case: this family’s obviously not terribly traditional, and in some important ways neither is he. He’ll treat Sebastian as a husband, not merely his submissive. “Um, about my history, I’ve done actual short-term contracts with two different people, temporary arrangements with friends. One-month contract the first time, three months for the second—”

“Yes, I know.” That handwave again. “Did you think I would not do research? I have. Have you ever been in love?”

“There was someone,” Chris says. Steadily. “Once. We never got the chance to find out.”

“What happened?”

It hurts; God, it hurts, even so many years on. “He died. An accident.”

“My son won’t be him for you.”

“I don’t want him to be.” Mid-skirmish, blades out; but Sebastian’s worth every drop of truth-blood spilled.

She nods. Chris isn’t sure whether this is commiseration or comprehension or simple acknowledgement of the honesty. “Sebastian won’t be anyone’s second choice. Other people want him.”

“He’s not a second choice,” Chris says, “for me.”

“You’ve never offered this for anyone else.”

“No.”

“You’ll keep him safe.”

“If he wants me to.”

“I mean…” She gazes at the family portrait again. A stripe of sunlight’s fallen beside it, blinding gold along the creamy wall. “You know how much it means, to find someone, and then to lose them. The world is cruel to submissives, even here, even in your so-free country. You will keep him safe.”

“I promise,” Chris vows. With everything he is. There’re other nuances and complications and uncontrollable factors, of course; he can’t be at Sebastian’s side every second of every day, even assuming his submissive would want that. Regardless: here and now he means it. Here and now he means it with his entire aching soul.

Sebastian’s mother closes her eyes for a single second. Her fingertips curl around the coffee-cup; Chris thinks of birds, of sparrows or wrens, small and brown and tidy and full of song. “He’s already told me that he’s interested in you. If he has to choose.”

The second sentence stings like a needle to a vein, but Chris can’t exactly argue with the sentiment on that side. “I brought copies of everything you asked for. My latest physical. Financial records. All of that.”

“Did you bring any art?”

“Um…did you…was I supposed to…”

“I didn’t ask you to. I should have. I wanted to know what my son saw in you.” She taps a finger over bone-pale china. “I admit I sought out your portfolio online. Impressive.”

“Thanks?”

“I could make this decision without telling him,” she says. “I won’t. I will give him my thoughts about you.”

Chris could say _good thoughts, I hope._ He says, “You love him.”

“ _Da_. Very much.” She grins, sudden and conspiratorial. “How am I doing, by the way? At interviewing you. My first time.”

“Terrifying,” Chris admits, and Sebastian’s mother laughs and refills his coffee. And adds sugar this time.

The sunbeam paints the room with light. The afternoon feels weightless, suspended like the open piano in the corner, like the rising drift of darkly roasted steam.

“Christopher Evans,” she observes thoughtfully. “This is not a yes. Not yet.”

Chris raises his cup in salute. That battlefield again, and he’s unsure who’s winning, but it’s probably her. Music and coffee and insight like a stiletto, wielded with consummate love. “I know.”

“I might meet with one or two others. For the sake of appearances.”

“I kn—really?”

“Drink your coffee,” Sebastian Stan’s mother suggests, and smiles. “And tell me about your art, Chris Evans.”


	9. mothers, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and his mother, the night before the wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also canonical! This one answers a question I was asking myself (not that anyone else was, but I wanted to know): why was Sebastian all alone the night before/morning of his wedding to Chris? 
> 
> So this takes place the night before the opening of [Like O, Like H](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1820722).

Sebastian’s mother has a way of knowing when he’s upset or scared or lonely. Ninety percent of the time, anyway. He at first thinks that this is why she’s calling on the night before his wedding. As if she can somehow see him: sitting on his bed, cross-legged, staring out the window at city lights and far-off stars. It’s early evening yet; his parents should be here soon for dinner, for company.

He picks up smiling, or something close to that. Says hello. Hears her voice in his ear the way he has ever since he can recall: warmth, music, safety, home.

Sometimes she doesn’t know when he’s scared or lonely or desperate, because he can’t tell her. Sometimes she doesn’t know because he’s a damn good actor—for all that he’s a composer—when he has to be. Sometimes his secrets come out despite that, though. He’s glad he wasn’t there to see her face when the paparazzi leaked certain photos and stories: himself, a specific type of club, a bribed employee, bruises and whip-marks and naked skin. He doesn’t want to know whether she believed it or denied it at first, until she couldn’t anymore. She’d been calm when he’d called to admit it all.

She asks him how he’s doing, whether he’s nervous, whether he’s got his suit. She tells him that everything’ll go well. He nods, though she can’t see it, and says he knows. She hesitates.

“ _Mamă_ ,” he says.

“We can’t make it down,” she says, “tonight. We’ll be there tomorrow. I swear to you we’ll be there.”

“What happened?” He has an idea already; his gut twists, or maybe that’s his heart. “Should I come home?”

“ _Nu_. Your father…” This means his stepfather; the man Sebastian’d learned to call Dad, American and laughing, making jokes about baseball and apple pie. “…he asked me this morning when you were coming home. From university. And he tried to make breakfast for you. This afternoon. I found the stove on.”

Sebastian’s graduation from Rutgers happened just about a decade ago. In the present, he closes his eyes. Breathes. Feels the heaviness of the bedsprings beneath him. His suit, grey and formal and wedding-ready, stares at him blankly from the hook on the closet door. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come?”

“Oh, _puiule_ …” Sad, but with so much love; it makes Sebastian’s chest ache. He presses fingers across his mouth. Doesn’t cry.

She says, “Stay warm. It is cold out. It is the night before you are getting married. Don’t worry about us.”

“I never do,” Sebastian says, telling the lie they both know is one, “with you around, _Mamă_. I’m staying warm, I’ve got socks on, and a blanket, even. I’ll make coffee. I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Am I?” He bites his lip. Shoves his toes under his topmost blanket. “I’m getting married.”

“Sebastian…”

“Don’t,” he says, and she says it anyway: “You don’t have to. You can—it is not too late. You can say no. You do not have to go through with this.”

He could say so many things. Could say: society dictates that I do. Could answer: it’s biology and tradition, it’s other people making claims that I can’t know what’s best for me, that I’ll roll over and play good submissive for anyone, that I need a firm guiding hand. It’s stupid and wrong and I hate it and I have to go along because I’ll lose everything if I don’t.

He could say: I’ll lose my career. They can’t take my art, but I’ll lose any potential employment if they think they can’t trust me. I’ll lose that income. That income we spend more and more of on those medical bills, and you know I want to, you know I’ve never cared about the money for myself, you know I’d bleed myself dry for you and Dad, songs and compositions and ridiculous holiday-special musical albums and film scores for dreadful high-school warlock movies, anything if it’ll let him make it through another day.

He could say: at least Chris Evans is an artist too. At least Chris Evans wrote to me, came to a concert, sent me a sketch: me personally, not directed to you, and I know it’s improper. But I’ve seen his paintings, his ink on paper, his acts of creation. I think maybe he sees me.

He could say: I think if I have to try, I want to try with him.

He says, “You know, if I decide I don’t like him, we can get divorced now, there’s that new law, I have the right to do that these days,” and she laughs, hushed and watery.

He says, sitting on his bed the night before his wedding with his mother’s voice on the phone, “I’ll be all right.”

“Do you have someone you can call?” She’s not overprotective, his mother: she’s resolute and strong, the woman who got them both to America; her love’s a lighthouse beacon in the dark, and she’s always wanted him to be strong too. “Friends? You shouldn’t be alone tonight. It is not good.”

Sebastian, being strong, says, “I won’t be alone.” Rocks and shoals and the crash of metaphorical waves. If there’s a lighthouse somewhere out there, at home in that beloved house in upstate New York, the ships won’t splinter apart. He can hold himself together.

He does have friends, or he did. No one he can call, or no one he wants to; Chace hasn’t spoken to him since the revelation, though in all fairness Sebastian’s been afraid to reach out. And Margarita, well. That’s more complicated. As a Domme, she could’ve offered for him; she’s a friend. But she couldn’t; for one thing, while she’s an actress and a good one, she doesn’t yet have the kind of steady income or celebrity cachet that he’ll need, being the unconventional submissive that he is. For another, they _are_ friends, and nothing more, given respective sexual preferences; he’d asked her not to join the ranks of his prospective suitors back when they’d first spoken, haltingly, after the scandal’d hit. He doesn’t want her to settle for him, even if that would solve the problem, which it won’t; she deserves someone who can love her in every way she’s ever dreamed about. They’d left it at that.

Besides, she’s in Italy at the moment. Posting Instagram snapshots of herself laughing under plaza lights in winding medieval streets. He won’t call.

In any case he’ll never be by himself. His piano’s out in the other room, and he’s got his computer and pen and paper and a new script, an early draft of the follow-up to that superhero film. He’s got characters in his head, and tunes and themes to imagine for them. Not alone. Not ever.

And he finds himself smiling again.

His mother sighs. “I want you—”

“—to be happy. I know.” He glances at his wedding-suit once more. “I know.”

“He said,” his mother murmurs, and Sebastian knows they’re talking about Chris Evans now, “that he would like to make you happy. I think he is a good man. Lonely. But kind.”

She’s told him as much on at least three different occasions, since meeting this potential suitor. Her way of reassuring them both, in this impossible situation. He answers the way he has before: “I can be happy with someone kind.”

It’s not about love. He has no reason to think that. But kindness might mean that Chris Evans will let him keep his art and see his family. Kindness might mean that Chris Evans will understand Sebastian’s lack of training and not punish him for it. He doesn’t know what it might mean if Chris Evans is lonely.

“We love you,” his mother says, words like a torch, like a lifted glowing certainty upon a damp foggy shore. “Go and eat something. See your friends. Rest. We’ll be there in the morning.”

“ _Te iubesc,_ ” Sebastian says, and they get off the phone, and he holds the slim electronic shape in his hand after, knuckles white around it; and then he makes himself get up and go out to the kitchen and look for food. It is a good idea, considered in the abstract. Dinner. Energy. If he doesn’t do it now he’ll forget, probably.

He opens his refrigerator. Looks into the whiteness without seeing much. Cold air on his face. That’s real.

The refrigerator, having no patience for his emotional crisis, lets out a grumpy groan. Sebastian has to laugh. That’s real as well.

He considers the contents, one by one. It’s possible that Chris Evans will restrict his diet: choosing food for him, deciding that Sebastian needs to gain or lose weight, refusing certain items in the house. Hmm.

He gets out chocolate chips and blueberries and pancake-related supplies, because if this is his last meal under his own authority, he’s damn well going to enjoy himself. Breakfast for dinner. _With_ whipped cream. What the hell.

He tosses a chocolate chip into his mouth, thinking about superheroes and tortured prisoners of war and the screeching curl of a tormented orchestra; not forgetting about his wedding, but shoving it to the back. More chocolate chips. Something heroic. Painful. Grand. Percussion. Rapid strings and a sense of loss and need. Freedom. And blueberries.

He ends up with three pancakes because he forgets to make more. Distracted by the super-soldiers and the percussion. Searching for a notebook and a pen. A while after that he makes coffee. The whipped cream goes atop that too.

The night’s cool and clear as diamonds in a ring. Or a collar, perhaps. Made of stars. He notes the simile, but pretends it doesn’t matter. And he wraps himself in a blanket and takes a sip of coffee and flips through the script-draft, pen in hand. And it’s the night before his wedding, and he’s worrying about too many things, his parents and Chris Evans and that looming collar; but he takes a breath and lets it out and loses himself for a while, just for a while, in the taste of whipped cream and the heartbreak of heroes.


	10. gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So [ninemoons42](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42) saw [this picture of Chris Evans waving that admonishing finger](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/113555031209/ninemoons42-x-i-suddenly-just-had-a-flash-of-him) and said, "there should be fic!" So...there is. 
> 
> Or: the chapter in which Sebastian's restless, needing to be calmed down, and very turned on by Chris's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonical; fits in somewhere after they've moved in together and gotten pretty comfortable with each other. No real warnings, other than the standard D/s dynamics.

It starts with one gesture.

Sebastian’s bored and irritated with himself and restless, having turned down the invitation to score _Jacuzzi Time Travel 2_ but not having anything else to compose just at this minute; he’d made the decision and sent that email and now he can’t focus, having after-the-fact panic. What if he’s offended the director? What if his parents need extra finances? What if no other movies or directors come his way and he’s through working in Hollywood, what if, what if—

He’s entirely aware that this is irrational. For one thing, he’s got a Marvel contract. The next of those scripts should be landing in his inbox shortly, so he can start thinking about superhero narratives and musical themes. And even if not, he’s got a reputation. He can play the piano. He’s put out an album or two, and the holiday monstrosity does not count even if Chris thinks it does. Chris adores that album, and Sebastian’s threatened divorce over this fact on more than one occasion, not seriously.

He glances at his husband. Chris is sitting by the window, absorbed in a sketch, eyes studious and swept up in the lines and shadows of pencil on paper. Chris is clearly busy.

Sebastian tries not to sigh. Collapses down on the couch, where the pillows try in their customary fashion to eat him, and opens his laptop, but then he starts thinking about that email and his own career choices again, so he shuts it rather more forcefully than necessary.

He eyes Chris again. No help there.

Outside the world is raining, long streamers of grey silk ribbon that ripple from sky to ground. Water pools in reflective black on city streets and leaps from building-eaves, performing arabesques with the soggy sky. He picks up his notebook. Stares at a blank page.

Notes. Rhythms. Raindrops. But he’s already written one rainsong, and that tune keeps coming back and interfering with anything new.

He fiddles his pen through fingers. His bones itch. Fretful.

He peeks over the back of the couch. Chris is working on some original pieces, studies of the city in moonlight and sunbeams and tourist-colored afternoons and shimmery silver-mist enchantment. This one may or may not make it into the final exhibition, but Chris had wanted to draw the building-angles and the scurrying umbrellas and the mysterious canyon-view of the street below from their apartment window.

He doesn’t mean to interrupt, he really doesn’t. He just wants something to do, a place to be, to not have to think about the future or the weight of made choices for a minute or two.

He gets up on both knees—they sink into the quicksand cushions—and props elbows on the back of the sofa, leaning that way, opening his mouth to say—

Chris, without looking, holds up one finger. An admonitory in-charge hang-on-I’m-working-you-can-wait sort of gesture.

Sebastian stares at the finger.

Chris goes back to sketching, plainly unaware of the tumultuous reactions he’s just kicked off among the sofa-cushions.

Sebastian stares at Chris.

The rain beats down mirthfully on the rooftops and windowpanes.

Sebastian stares at Chris—at his husband, his Dominant—some more, and then, testing, moves one hand down out of sight, brushing the top button of his jeans, still kneeling on the couch.

Chris waves the finger at him this time, back and forth like a schoolteacher chastising a pupil. “Be good.”

Sebastian honestly whimpers out loud, which would be embarrassing except that he’s pretty much beyond embarrassment. Flushed all over. Cock rigid and aching in his pants. Skin too hot under his sweater. Wrists needing to be—touched, held, pinned down. Throat wanting the weight of Chris’s kisses, the scrape of that beard—God, wanting his collar, the one Chris’d bought for him with the soft blue suede inside, marking him as Chris’s, giving him a place to belong—

Chris says without glancing up, “If you can wait another five minutes, I’ll reward you. If not, well…I won’t.”

Sebastian puts a hand over his mouth. Groans through fingers. Unless that’s a muffled scream.

Chris’s pencil pauses.

Sebastian says desperately, “Sorry, sorry, I— _Îmi pare rău,_ I’m sorry, Chris, I can be good—”

“Can you?” Chris taps pencil over paper. Deliberate. Authoritative. “That bad? The way you’re feeling.”

“Please,” Sebastian whispers, not sure whether he needs to cry or kiss Chris’s feet or have an orgasm, feeling shivery and lightheaded and liquid as the rain.

“I said five minutes,” Chris decides, looking over, looking at him, really looking. “Go get your collar. I know you want to. Nothing else, though. And no touching.”

Sebastian flicks eyes down at his crotch. The wet spot’s going to be evident; he’s that turned on already, shocked and thrilled and abandoned to the idea of this, the authority of Chris’s voice and those firm and kindly hands.

The rain redoubles, relentless as a racing pulse. He manages, “Yes, Chris,” and goes, on wobbly legs, to the bedroom and the drawer that safeguards certain accessories, and he takes a shaky breath or two with hands braced on the dresser. His body sings and hums like a tune falling into place after all, like he’s an instrument built for Chris Evans to play.

He smiles a little at his own simile, and even laughs, running a hand through his hair. Anticipation tapdances along his bones. His jeans pull and stretch across his arousal, obscene and needy, and he knows Chris wants him this way, and he wants to be good; he feels good when he thinks about being good. For Chris.

He comes back out into the living room, collar in hand—Chris hasn’t said to put it on, only to find it—and hesitates, unsure. Back over on the couch? Someplace else? Melting into a limp lax puddle of bliss at his husband’s feet, which is an increasingly likely option if Chris keeps on with the calmly commanding orders?

Chris turns his way. Looks him up and down, leisurely, artist’s eyes noting every giveaway of endless want, from that growing damp spot at the front of his pants to the color that must be staining his cheeks, where he can feel pinkness blossoming under skin at the thought of being scrutinized and put on display like this, helpless with visible desire.

It’s a good kind of shame. Private and hot and wicked, full of shattering inhibitions and pleasurable moans.

Chris, watching his face, murmurs, “You did need that, I’m sorry, I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I, sub? You’ve been needing me.”

“I only…you’re busy…it’s not important, I already sent that email, I told you, I just feel…I didn’t want to interrupt—”

“Shh,” Chris says. “You’re not. Interrupting, I mean. You’re always fuckin’ important. Come here.”

“Aren’t you still working on—”

“Sebastian.” Chris raises eyebrows. Expectant. Scolding. “That’s me giving you an order. Yeah, I need a few more minutes to finish up. Come here.”

“Oh,” Sebastian says, barely a breath, lips shaping the word; and crosses the room to Chris’s side at the window-seat.

Chris puts a hand on his head. Pushes him to the floor. Sebastian goes willingly, world abruptly quiet, nothing left but the rushing of the rain and the heavy caress of that hand.

He’s dimly aware of Chris taking the collar out of his hand, putting it around his neck, rubbing a thumb over leather and metal and skin. He sighs a little. Leans his head on Chris’s knee. Closes his eyes. “So good,” Chris says, playing with his hair, “give me just a minute or two, okay? You can stay right here.” Sebastian nods, and stays very still.

Some time passes, lost in drifting silken noises: the scratch of pencil on paper, the rustle of wind through leaves, the purr of thunder as the storm picks up. Chris’s knee’s denim-covered and safe, fabric rough and soft and time-worn and warm against his cheek. The afternoon tastes like water in the air, iridescent and comforting, a paradox of promise and contentment that he can dissolve into; and he waits. With Chris’s hand in his hair.

Chris touches his cheek, gentle, assured, coaxing. Sebastian blinks, shivers, looks up. His vision’s a little blurry. Hazy around the edges. Sweet as belonging.

“Done,” Chris says, voice wonderfully fond; and then crooks a finger at him, beckoning: come here.


	11. watersports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys experiment with desperation play, claiming, and watersports.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains, well, the obvious kinks, from the chapter title and summary! 
> 
> This one's sort of semi-canonical. If it's not your thing and you skip this chapter, no worries; it'll never come up in the larger main storyline, so it won't matter. In my personal authorial head, though, it IS canonical: they both checked 'maybe' about trying this on those checklists, and they're comfortable enough to experiment, by now. But, again, no impact on the larger story.
> 
> So this is SO not my normal kink, except every once in a very rare blue moon it CAN be my kink, especially if it's more about the dynamic and the power-play and the desperation and control and claiming aspects. And I'd left the possibility open in the main storyline, when Chris changed that answer from 'no' to 'maybe interested'. And then someone'd mentioned a while back that there was a serious lack of this kink among the Evanstan fics. And then I REALLY didn't want to grade midterms.
> 
> So, yeah. *hides in embarrassment*

The first time’s not on purpose.  
  
They’re driving home from Boston, where they’d been celebrating Chris’s mother’s birthday with a week-long extravaganza of cake and home-made dinners and carefully planned mock-impromptu skits, tapdances, and performances from various Evans children and in-laws and friends; Chris had obligingly painted backdrops for his sister’s kids’ barn dance from _Oklahoma!_ , and Sebastian had shyly offered to play the piano and had done musical arrangements for the productions on multiple nights. One of those nights’d included a simple short piano-tune, a melody that Chris hadn’t even known about; it’d been bright and sunny and fierce and warm all at once, the kind of tune that spoke of love and simplicity and open doors for anyone needing a home, and of gratitude for that home, written by someone who’d been welcomed into it. Everyone’d applauded and demanded to know the title, if it might be for a film, if Sebastian was doing a new original classical album. Sebastian had blushed but admitted valiantly, “In fact I did write it for someone, I brought a copy, I know Chris and I got you the new kitchen pots but this is from me, I just wanted to say thank you, I—” and then found himself being hugged to within an inch of his life by Chris’s sniffling teary-eyed mother.  
  
Chris might’ve gotten a little teary-eyed himself. He’s not ashamed. He’s so in love he thinks his heart might erupt with joy, which is kind of a distressing volcanic metaphor, but: it’s how he feels.  
  
After the food and the goodbyes and the packing-up, they’re finally on the way home, driving because Chris had made that decision without a second thought, knowing about Sebastian and planes. Sebastian’d smiled at him for that.  
  
Sebastian’s not quite smiling now, likely because of the traffic, which has gone from bad to worse. They’re nearly home, only maybe twenty minutes, but crawling. Chris tells himself that he doesn’t mind because he’s doing this for his husband, and this is even mostly true.  
  
Sebastian seems to be uncomfortable, though. Restless. Shifting position. Glancing out the window at the desultory splattering rain. Pushing up sweater-sleeves, touching his collar absentmindedly, jiggling a leg. Biting his lip.  
  
“Okay,” Chris says finally, “what?”  
  
Sebastian jumps, as if he’s not been expecting to get caught, and stops fidgeting. “Nothing, Chris.”  
  
“Pretty sure that’s not true, and you promised to tell me if—”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong! I swear!”  
  
“Nope,” Chris says, taking eyes off the car-clogged road for a second to glare fondly at his submissive. “Not gonna work. Me, my family, my uncle’s cooking, what is it?”  
  
Sebastian now looks horrified. “None of that! I adore your family. They’re passionate. Genuine. And your uncle’s meatball-lasagna combination is also quite…passionate.”  
  
“Not the word most people use, but okay, so if it’s not second thoughts about making my family fall in love with you, then what?”  
  
“I just…” Sebastian makes a face at him. “It’s embarrassing. And I feel stupid. And like I ought not to’ve had a third cup of coffee before we left.”  
  
“Ohhh,” Chris says, realizing belatedly. “Oh. Um. I can…we can…” He throws a glance around. No good alternate routes in sight. “Can you wait?”  
  
Sebastian lets out a noise that’s someplace between a groan and a sigh. “I can _try_.”  
  
“It’s only twenty minutes…”  
  
“I hate rain.”  
  
“You love rain,” Chris points out, and Sebastian levels a stare his direction. “I know, sir, _thank_ you.”  
  
If his husband’s feeling ruffled enough to be sarcastic—especially given that they’ve agreed on using Chris’s name instead of honorifics—then this is in fact somewhat serious. Sebastian’s perfectly capable of being sarcastic on an ordinary day, of course; it’s not as if Chris married a meek and retiring submissive. But Sebastian delivering a _sir_ with that kind of edge means he’s embarrassed and annoyed and off-balance. Which consequently means Chris needs to think of a solution. Fast.  
  
Sebastian _did_ say sir. And _is_ wearing the collar. Public visibility and all, black leather visible behind the loop of today’s grey scarf. The rain plops onto the windshield approvingly. It’s a fan of Chris’s newborn idea.  
  
“Sebastian,” he says. Gathering authority. Putting it into his voice. Dominant to submissive.  
  
Sebastian blinks, expression caught between astonishment and mortification and cranky arousal. Excellent.  
  
“You said you could try to wait,” Chris says. “I’m making it an order. You’ll wait.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Sebastian says, and then says it again in Romanian _and_ German.  
  
“That’s not how you answer me,” Chris says, driving, deliberately looking away. He hears the gasp as this fact registers, and worries for a minute that he’s been too harsh, but then the whisper of, “Yes, Chris,” drifts over from the passenger seat, and he grins.  
  
“This…might actually work.” Sebastian tips his head back against the headrest. Swallows. His body’s tense, his cock visibly starting to swell in his jeans. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“For what?” Chris reaches over and clamps a hand on his thigh, biting down just enough to prompt a whimper. “I don’t mind. Besides, you belong to me. You said so.”  
  
“I do,” Sebastian breathes. “ _Da_. Yes. Yours.”  
  
“So this belongs to me too.” He risks another glance over—the traffic’s moving forward, albeit inch by inch—and meets his husband’s eyes. They’ve never had the kind of strictly traditional relationship that’d require Sebastian to ask for permission to eat or leave the table or use the restroom; neither of them would’ve wanted that. But this, here and now, appreciation and desire and astonishment warring in Sebastian’s seaspray gaze…  
  
This they can do. This Chris can very definitely do.  
  
He says, “You can use the restroom when I say you can. If I want to tell you to wait, I will. And you’ll wait. Because you want to be good for me. Don’t you, baby?”  
  
Sebastian’s mouth actually falls open at that. It’s a good look on him: absolute pure want tinged with slight desperation. “Yes, Chris.”  
  
“Good,” Chris praises, and leaves the hand resting on his thigh, and drives.  
  
The traffic miraculously clears up soon, and Chris drives fast—he’s not a sadist, and he’s not abusing this trust—but maybe not _too_ fast. Every glance over at Sebastian, flushed and squirming and looking increasingly more distressed, goes straight to Chris’s cock. Bullets of sheer lust, physical and instinctive and visceral. Sebastian’s gorgeous when he’s pleading and needy, bent over Chris’s knee or bound and gagged on the floor, and Chris’s brain’s getting some serious images overlaid on the actual scene, hearing tiny whimpers and adjustments of position, watching the way his submissive’s hands fall to cup his cock in an attempt at relief…  
  
Home. Their New York apartment, lofty-windowed and bookshelf-populated. It opens up happily as Chris unlocks the door, and beckons them in. Sebastian shoves Chris’s mother’s chicken fettucine leftovers into the fridge, starts to sprint for the closest restroom, and then freezes as Chris lifts eyebrows his direction: where’re you going, I’m not saying anything yet…  
  
“Oh no,” Sebastian says, eyes huge, “oh no, no, please, sir, Chris, _please_ —”  
  
“Did you just say no to me?”  
  
“Oh God,” Sebastian says, hand over his mouth. He’s shivering, unable to stand still; Chris can see the outline of his cock pressing into his jeans. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _Îmi pare rău,_ please, Chris, I’ll do anything, anything you say, please—”  
  
“Anything?” Chris steps closer to him. Runs a hand over his submissive’s shaking body, shoulder to hip, taking his time. “I kinda like you like this. Begging me for what you need…”  
  
Sebastian bites his lip sharply, and a darker spot appears where his cock’s visibly hard, tenting fabric; but he doesn’t move, doesn’t disobey.  
  
“So good for me,” Chris says, and kisses him on the forehead. “All right, go.”  
  
Sebastian gasps something that might’ve been a thank you and bolts. Chris counts to five, measured increments of time, then wanders that way.  
  
The door’s shut. He opens it. Sebastian’s lips part, seeing him in the mirror.  
  
Chris smiles at him. Props a shoulder on the doorframe. Waits.  
  
Sebastian makes a pleading little sound, but he’s already half done, intimate and revealed: cock in hand, a stream of relief into the toilet bowl; and he can’t stop even with Chris watching. When he’s done, he washes his hands very carefully and then turns around. His eyes hold the question.  
  
“Come here.” Chris opens arms. His husband practically falls into them. Chris pets his hair, cuddles him close, tells him he did so well, he’s so wonderful, no need to be embarrassed, they’re fine, they’re more than fine…  
  
“I know,” Sebastian says into Chris’s shirt. His hair tickles Chris’s mouth. The rain comes in with a vengeance beyond the picture windows, shrouding them in silken patter and the scent of water-drenched sky. “I only…I’ve never…do you want this? Or—I think I don’t know what you want. And I’ve never done this.”  
  
“I know,” Chris echoes, rubbing his back through the sweater. “I’m not asking you to ask me every time. I don’t want that. Um. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just this once. But I don’t want you to be ashamed of anything, in front of me.”  
  
“So new,” Sebastian considers. “All of this. I never know what to expect.” And in his voice the memory of arranged marriages and aphrodisiac wedding-nights battles with the knowledge of never-imagined but real happy endings.  
  
“I’m not asking for this,” Chris says, truthful. “I didn’t know I wanted—whatever it is I want. But, um, I also kind of want to have sex with you right now.”  
  
Sebastian stops leaning into him to regard this statement with skepticism. “Because you watched me use the restroom.”  
  
“Because you did it for me. When I let you.”  
  
Sebastian’s lips shape the _oh_. “That…I did like that. I never thought.”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris teases gently, sneaking hands down to the waist of his husband’s jeans, searching out a button, “me either, but can we stop thinking now and have the sex? If you feel okay with this, I mean, not pushing you.”  
  
“You really do want to.”  
  
“Fuck yeah I do.”  
  
And Sebastian grins, bright and impish as a tropical rainshower. “I do need to take off these pants. And underwear. Which got a bit…wet…when you were saying those things. Would you like to assist me with that?”  
  
They never make it out of the guest bathroom. Chris fucks his husband on the spot, bent over the sink, jeans and underwear shoved down around his ankles; Sebastian hides his face in his arms when Chris tugs his clothing off, shivering with the impact of everything they’re doing, but Chris eyes the tangle of fabric and feels the bolt of lust skitter down his spine, hot and primal. Sebastian’s _his_. Yes.  
  
They have lube under the sink because they’ve learned to keep lube everyplace. This one smells and tastes like watermelon’s gone through a bar fight with cotton candy, but Sebastian likes it, so Chris tolerates the sweetness. He also curls the non-messy hand into his husband’s hair and tugs, not hard. Sebastian gets the message and looks up, cheeks faintly pink but eyes full of trust. Chris cups his cheek, turns his face to the mirror, gets him to watch: to see himself as Chris pushes into him, as Chris makes love to him in the bathroom with stained pants at his feet and the sizzling decadent awareness that his Dominant’s just watched him in the act, seen his cock relieving itself, private function claimed by Chris and transformed into a new sparkling part of the dynamic.  
  
Sebastian trembles and clutches Chris’s wrist when Chris braces himself on the counter. But doesn’t look away, because Chris wants him to see. And doesn’t call red or yellow or any word that’d end the scene. Sebastian’s right here with him, getting off on the thought of surrendering that much control.  
  
Chris gets the other hand on his cock, that luscious thick length he’s just seen so exposed; Sebastian feels like iron and heat and velvet skin, and Sebastian moans dazedly as Chris’s hand toys with him, not even properly stroking; and that’s it, Chris is coming, emptying himself into his husband’s tight slick body as muscles ripple around him. Sebastian hasn’t come yet because Chris hasn’t let him, but is right on the edge, quivering and strung out, cock dripping copiously between Chris’s fingers; Chris, through ebbing waves of light, speeds up the strokes, gathers Sebastian closer under his own body, and tells him to come, to let it go, to let Chris see it…  
  
Sebastian comes with a low shuddering groan, eyes fluttering shut, body arching into Chris’s grip. The expression on his face is one Chris has only seen before at the deepest levels of subspace, the transcendent aureate heights of pleasure.  
  
Chris ends up kind of shaky himself, at that sight. In their guest bathroom. Beneath the drumming of the rain.  
  
After, he gets Sebastian tucked into his arms on the sofa, snacks and water and juice within reach, plus a notebook in case his genius composer husband feels like writing an opera, and puts on an old episode of _Community_ because Sebastian’s a fan. Sebastian, half-awake, kisses his shoulder. Chris says, “I did clean up, but I didn’t do your laundry,” and his husband yawns and comes back a bit more and says, “Don’t touch the laundry,” which means that Sebastian’s awake enough to remember the red socks incident of the previous month.  
  
Chris says hopefully, “I love you,” and feeds him an apple slice. Sebastian smiles, and kisses him with apple-sticky lips.  
  
  
  
The second time’s half on purpose. More accurately, Sebastian does it on purpose, though Chris doesn’t initially realize this, because Chris is sometimes idiotically oblivious to important facts.  
  
It’s about a month after the first time, and they’ve never really spoken about that afternoon. Sebastian doesn’t ever mention the idea. Chris is afraid to. Yeah, it was good—it was fucking _incandescent_ —but what if Sebastian’s having after-the-scene regret? He thinks that in the moment they both wanted to, but what if Sebastian’s decided that that was just too far? What if Sebastian _can’t_ talk about it—Sebastian who needed so much time early on to convince himself to trust Chris, to believe that his Dominant wouldn’t abuse that trust? Sebastian had said it once, the morning after the wedding night: who do I become, once I’m yours?  
  
Chris can’t ask. Can’t be the one to bring it up.  
  
So he doesn’t. And the days meander on.  
  
He thinks about it, though. Relegates the moment to a wonderful memory, a daydream space in the back of his head: a magical afternoon-out-of-time that’d never come again, full of self-discovery and extraordinary comprehension and intimate closeness and hot wet skin. He’ll pull out that memory to turn over like a love-letter sometimes, when Sebastian’s away for a film-industry meeting, maybe.  
  
And he’s fine with that. One hundred percent. He honestly is. He could want to try it again—his pulse picks up at the thought of exploration—but if they never do, that’s okay too. Whatever his submissive wants.  
  
Which is why it’s such a surprise when Sebastian gives him a sideways glance one evening, over halfway through _Jersey Boys_ on Netflix, and offers an extremely familiar telltale squirm of hips against the sofa.  
  
Chris literally can’t believe what might be happening, and so fails to react. The Four Seasons tunefully invite Sherry to come out tonight, in the background.  
  
Sebastian, about a minute later, does it again. Shifting in his spot next to Chris. Crossing long legs. Not bothering to be unobtrusive.  
  
Chris can hardly think past the rush of blood thumping in his ears, the instant swell of his erection. Sebastian wouldn’t…Sebastian doesn’t want to…but clearly _is_ , even drawing attention to the fact…and, currently, is darting another glance at him, almost flirtatious.  
  
“Um,” Chris ventures gingerly, hoping he’s not misreading. “You…”  
  
Sebastian gives him a slightly different look, somewhere between _good God my Dominant’s slow on the uptake_ and _thank God we’re getting there at last_. Amazing how good blue eyes are at that.  
  
“Just checking…we are, I mean, you are…” He reaches over. Rests a hand below the tie of Sebastian’s comfortable sweatpants. Not pushing, not yet. “You want to tell me what we’re doin’?”  
  
“No,” Sebastian retorts. “I’m not certain I can _say_ it. But I spent the evening drinking your highly caffeinated soda for a reason, you understand, Chris.”  
  
“So you did.” Chris does know that, though he’d not been attaching any particular weight to the knowledge. But…Sebastian also hasn’t gone to the restroom all evening, as far as he can recall, and has been curled up next to him watching the movie, which means he’s been holding it and waiting…waiting for Chris to notice…  
  
Sebastian might not be able to ask, but does want to be told. Chris feels the grin spread across his face. “Sorry. I’m kinda not good at subtle. You’ve been hoping I’d notice for a while, right? Just sitting there waiting for me to tell you what you can do, whether you get to feel better…”  
  
Sebastian nods. Decisively. With relief at the understanding.  
  
“Poor baby,” Chris murmurs, rubbing his abdomen gently through sweatpants. Sebastian’s breathing hitches, shortens: efforts at control. “You do like this, don’t you…knowing I get to decide what’s good for you, giving you orders, taking care of you…”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes widen, then go softer. Dreamy. Spacey and distracted. When Chris leans in to kiss him, the return kiss is almost innocent, directionless and yielding. Not as deep as they’ve gotten him before, but definitely subspace, and a swift slipping under.  
  
“Shh,” Chris murmurs, and works the hand into his sweatpants, toys with his semi-hard cock, plays with dark springy curls of hair over tense muscles. Sebastian whimpers, head falling back, cock leaking a drop or two of fluid.  
  
“Shh,” Chris says again, and checks the remaining time on the film. About forty-five minutes. Hmm.  
  
He keeps Sebastian there, hand playing with that willing body, and turns up the volume a hair even though he’s not really watching. Pale aquamarine eyes get bigger when his submissive realizes the plan, dismaying enough to bring back a modicum of awareness; but Sebastian doesn’t protest. Sebastian does give him rather betrayed-looking pathetic kitten eyes, once; Chris kisses his nose. “You wanted this. You asked for it.”  
  
“Forty-five _minutes_ ,” Sebastian grumbles, plus some annoyed-but-not-really swearing in multiple languages. “I don’t know if I can, Chris.”  
  
“If you really can’t, tell me.” He kisses an eyebrow this time. “I want you to try. Wait until I give you permission, sub.”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Sebastian says, breath like the phrasing’s stolen all his air, “yes, Chris,” and puts his head on Chris’s shoulder.  
  
It’s not easy. Chris can tell. The first ten minutes or so go okay; Sebastian was exaggerating the discomfort to get attention, before. But shortly thereafter he’s biting his lip, wriggling, making unconscious soft sounds; Chris can see the discomfort, the growing ache. Chris’s hand isn’t helping. Added weight on his groin. Extra stimulation.  
  
Sebastian cracks far enough to take Chris’s hand and kiss it, sucking the index finger into his mouth, voiceless begging. Chris permits this distraction, even pushing a second finger in alongside, and then tells him, “Keep this up and I’m gonna fuck you before I let you go, I hear that makes it, like, more intense,” and Sebastian takes a slow shaky breath around his hand and does, in fact, keep it up.  
  
The movie’s over at last, neither of them watching; Chris wraps his hand firmly around Sebastian’s cock, inarguable command. “You. Bed. Now.”  
  
“Bed—”  
  
“Are you arguing? Said I was going to fuck you, sub.”  
  
“But—but, Chris, I—”  
  
“Quiet,” Chris says, and then winces at his own tone. “Sorry, baby, sorry, I love you. Too much?”  
  
“ _Nu_ …no…I’d tell you…” Tears glitter in Sebastian’s eyes, easy and ready to tumble, overstimulated. “But quickly, please?”  
  
“Of course.” He seals that promise with a kiss. And hauls his husband off to the bedroom, grabbing towels as an afterthought.  
  
The afterthought turns out to be a very good one. When he gets Sebastian flat on his back on the bed, Sebastian’s cock drips, a tantalizing hint of both pre-come and other need. Sebastian makes a sound of anguish, shyness fighting arousal; Chris practically growls, a noise he’s never known he could make, chest tight with protective ferocious possessive love, and lifts endless legs and shoves _in_ , blunt and forceful. Sebastian cries out at the sudden fullness, but doesn’t tell him to stop; Chris folds him nearly in half, kissing his throat, his chest, his jawline, leaving rough scrapes of beard and teeth, marks that’ll linger.  
  
When he pulls back and plunges in again, Sebastian sobs his name and then, “If you—I’m going to—please, Chris—I can’t wait, it’s too—”  
  
“Too much?” He rocks back into his submissive’s body lazily, taking his time. Sebastian’s cock rubs deliciously between their bodies, trapped. “You need to come, or something else, baby?”  
  
“I don’t know!” It’s a wail, broken and despairing, every last wall crumbling down. “Chris, Chris, please—”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris pants, withdrawing, waiting—and slamming home, hard and fast as he can, “yeah, yes, for me—”  
  
Sebastian comes first, gorgeous long stripes of white splashing over his stomach and chest; he keeps coming for several exquisite seconds, lost in ecstasy as Chris watches. His body tightens in a beautiful bow and then releases; and with that release comes another form of release, new golden hot wetness unguardedly spilling from his cock, Chris’s rigid length still buried in his body.  
  
Chris, stunned and reverent—he’s fucked Sebastian to this point, gotten him to relinquish every drop of ingrained control, and oh he’s never been more honored and in love—moves inside him because he can’t not, even as Sebastian wakes up with a horrified gasp at what he’s just done, even as Sebastian squeezes eyes shut in mortification—  
  
But Sebastian’s arms reach for him, finding Chris’s biceps and clinging. And Chris comes at the touch, at the sensation of Sebastian needing him.  
  
It’s not that messy after all; Sebastian stopped himself after only a few seconds, and most of the hot stickiness is come and lube between their bodies. Sebastian’s crying, not talking; Chris finds a second towel and swipes it over their stomachs and between Sebastian’s legs. Sebastian gasps, and Chris guesses that the towel must be too rough on tender flesh, on his poor abused cock; he starts to apologize, but Sebastian rolls off the bed and flees to the bathroom, where Chris can hear sounds of the toilet being used.  
  
He looks at his hands. They shake a little. Sebastian did want to, he believes that, but—  
  
He turns that way, toward the master bath.  
  
The door’s open. Sebastian left the door open.  
  
Chris takes a deep breath. Shuts his eyes, opens them. Okay.  
  
When he gets up on wobbly legs and walks over, Sebastian’s done, but has clearly been splashing water on his face. His cheeks and eyelashes’re wet.  
  
“I’m s—”  
  
“Don’t be,” Sebastian interjects. His voice sounds as tremulous as Chris’s knees. “Don’t. Just—just hold me.”  
  
Chris sits right down there on the bathroom floor, on the plush memory-foam rug Sebastian’d fallen head over heels for in the store, and opens arms. His husband curls up into them, both of them naked in so many ways.  
  
Chris rests his cheek in damp soft hair. The bathroom lights shine down in hushed white, and the knobs and fixture shine right back. Compassionate. Safe. Companionable.  
  
Sebastian says, voice very small but clear, “I’m crying because it felt good, you know.”  
  
“Yeah.” He kisses the top of his submissive’s head. “I know.” He does. If he thinks about it too much, he ends up wincing: so many social taboos, childhood training, the internalized sense of shamefulness and dirtiness…  
  
But that doesn’t matter. They’re not hurting anyone else, he’s certainly never going to enforce this one except in private and on special occasions, and they both like the way the power-play makes them feel. So it’s good. They’re good. Together.  
  
He says as much, fumblingly. Sebastian nods, but then says, “Yellow, sir. I’m sorry.”  
  
After the scene, Chris thinks. Not during. “Because it’s too intense?”  
  
“Because…yes…I said it now on purpose. I do like it. I just mean—not again anytime soon. I need to…” A handwave, searching for vocabulary. “Equilibrium. I can’t do this every day.”  
  
“Fair enough.” He takes Sebastian’s closest hand, linking their fingers. “I don’t think I’d ask you to. Too much, kinda, if we made it an everyday thing. You’re not, like, a pet or something, I’m not gonna take you on walks to the bathroom, y’know.”  
  
“I should hope not.” Dry and amused, which is better than the dreadful post-scene crash Chris’s heart’s been subconsciously anticipating. “Though…and this is not a disagreement…I seem to recall you calling me your kitten, once or twice.”  
  
“Yeah, well. You kinda are. Sunshine and staying warm and fluffy blankets and cuddling with me. I like it. I love you.”  
  
“And you said you wanted to be able to pet me,” Sebastian says. “Always. I love you. It’s not a never again, only a slow down. I know it was my idea, this time. I enjoyed it.”  
  
“Thought you did. I did too. If you couldn’t tell.”  
  
“Oh,” Sebastian purrs, tilting that head up to kiss him, letting Chris know they’re okay and the bathroom rug is okay and the whole world is okay, “I could tell.”  
  
“Just let me know when,” Chris says, “or not, or whatever,” and kisses him back, drinking him in.

 

The third time, then, is entirely on purpose, about three months after that day. Chris hasn’t forgotten; Sebastian hasn’t either, from the occasional mischievous glance while drinking a soda or the sometimes left-open bathroom door. Chris readily lurks around the door and once or twice grabs his submissive’s wrist to make him pause for a moment before going in: playful, teasing, intent simmering but not boiling over.  
  
The night that boiling-over happens, they’ve just returned from a late-night party, an art-dealer shindig full of black ties and taffeta dresses, men and women cultivating connections while dissecting trends and canvases in tastefully pretentious tones. Chris has been holding himself together manfully, itch building up under his skin; Sebastian’s been his savior, a lovely cheetah-legged adorable savior in a sleek black suit and slender silver-chain collar, the intricate web of the chain fitted to his throat and gleaming. Sebastian’s not precisely eloquent, sometimes having to stop and consider or regret certain phrasing in English, but is charming and enthusiastic and sweet and thoughtful, and people end up _wanting_ to talk to him, to hear what he knows about art and music and creation.  
  
Chris gets compliments on his intelligent and precocious submissive all night long. He grits his teeth and takes them, at first. Eventually he snaps and tells a certain very prominent art critic that Sebastian’s his own person, that Chris is the one who’s honored to be married to him, that Sebastian picks out his own damn clothes and wears the collar because, yeah, legal requirements, but Chris wouldn’t think twice about paying the fines if Sebastian _didn’t_ want to wear it. Her flawlessly plucked eyebrows go up in surprise, and she asks whether she can quote him on that, whether he’s coming out on record as a submissives’ rights supporter. Chris, having had maybe too much free champagne, says, “Fuck yeah, go right ahead,” at which point Sebastian gracefully steps in to end the conversation and usher his Dominant off to a waiting taxi.  
  
“She shouldn’t’ve talked about you like that,” Chris grumbles, getting out at their building, wondering whether he can post an unflattering sketch of the woman on his personal website. He’s not bad at caricature.  
  
“She doesn’t know.” Sebastian kicks off his shoes, kneels to untie Chris’s. It’s a spontaneous act, not a requirement; Chris rests a hand on his head, and his submissive looks up. “She’s just old-fashioned. And looking for a story. And we’re complicated, anyway, the two of us. I did sign that petition, by the way, the Hollywood one. If you get a call saying my name’s on a witch-hunt list somewhere, I apologize.”  
  
The Hollywood petition is a demand—signed by some of the most prominent luminaries in the business—to allow submissives to join screen industry guilds—actors, screenwriters, and so on—without requiring a Dominant’s approval. Sebastian’s name carries a certain amount of weight—not as much as some, but he _is_ an Oscar-nominated and Grammy-nominated composer, with a relatively higher profile thanks to the summer-blockbuster superhero films. Both he and Chris had wanted to help, the second someone’d sent the petition Sebastian’s way.  
  
“You told me you would,” Chris says. “I said I was right there with you.” And he hopes with all his soul that this won’t backfire; that no unwanted attention’ll land on Sebastian’s head; that he himself will be able to throw his body like a shield between his husband and the fallout if it comes.  
  
They _are_ complicated. Sebastian’s walking a fine line between defiance and desire and social tradition. Chris has money, and they could certainly survive if Sebastian’s directors turned on him, if studios refused to let him record glittering classical-music albums; but Sebastian loves his work, loves the marriage of narrative and orchestra on screen. And then there’s Sebastian’s parents. Those medical bills.  
  
Chris swallows down the bruising lump in his throat. Touches Sebastian’s cheek as his husband kneels at his feet, bathed in hallway lamplight, tie crooked. The night aches with joy.  
  
Sebastian closes his eyes, turns his head, kisses Chris’s hand, looks up. His gaze is very clear, intent and grave and blue as distant stars. “I want you.”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris says, voice unaccountably hoarse. “Yeah.”  
  
They run into the bedroom, leaving scattered suit-pieces like black-and-white leaves along the way, a trail of giddy fairytale bread-crumbs. Chris peels off Sebastian’s shirt; Sebastian’s nimble fingers make quick work of Chris’s pants. Chris goes to do the same, and Sebastian stops abruptly, shakes his head, laughs. “Ah…Chris?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I may have also had quite a lot of champagne, and I…well, I might have to…”  
  
Chris, catching up, blurts out “Oh!” and hopes that doesn’t sound too eager, like a demand, when last time Sebastian did ask to slow down.  
  
“Oh, indeed…” Sebastian smiles, shrugs: a summoning happy gesture. “If you want to. I would. I don’t know about the waiting part, but—that other part, when you watched me—or if you wanted to, I don’t know, ah—touch me while—”  
  
“Oh fuck yes!” Chris agrees, kind of still marveling at the suggestion but jumping on board immediately and holding on with both hands, “and, um, okay, wait, I’ve got an idea, trust me?”  
  
“Always,” Sebastian says. “ _Mereu_. Forever.”  
  
Chris kisses him for that. And yanks off the last bits of both their clothes, and grabs Sebastian’s hand, and leads the way.  
  
“Shower?...oh. _Oh_.” Sebastian’s eyes’re enchantingly wide. “Oh, Chris. Yes, but—you may need to hold me, after.”  
  
“Kind of planning to hold you _during_ ,” Chris points out, waggling eyebrows; Sebastian laughs as steam billows up merrily, filling the room.  
  
They step in together, under the spray. It’s a large shower, designed for this place and to Chris’s specifications: textured tile floor, shades of grey and blue and a sort of natural rock tone, useful bench at the back, space big enough for all kinds of play. There’s a separate tub with spa jets, but that’s not the point right now; he can bathe Sebastian after, maybe, soothing emotions and shakiness away. Now is for something very specific. Special occasions. As it were.  
  
He kisses champagne-flavored smiling lips under the rainfall of the showerhead, deep and demanding and passionate, employing every last trick he knows Sebastian loves, until his submissive’s breathless and swaying and malleable against him. Chris works a hand between his legs, strokes his cock; cups the weight of his balls, drawn-up and taut with desire. Sebastian whines softly; Chris nips at his lower lip, catching it between teeth. Water slides down their bodies, crystalline and glistening.  
  
As a follow-up, he teases the head of Sebastian’s cock: scratch of a thumbnail over the slit, a squeeze, finger dipping into wetness. Sebastian moans, falling further under, incoherent from champagne and need and Chris’s hands on him. Chris lavishes him with praise, tells him he’s wonderful, wraps the other hand around the back of his neck and watches Sebastian’s knees try to buckle. The grip keeps him upright; Chris’s hand teasing his cock and groin makes him sob and squirm in place.  
  
“You want to,” Chris tells him, “but you won’t, you know I’m not letting you, not until I give you permission,” and Sebastian lets out a sound he’s never heard before, pained and devout and acquiescent. Chris kisses him for that, thinking, making plans.  
  
“So good,” he says next, “so good for me, all mine, even this, you go when I say you can, and you wait if I make you wait, isn’t that right,” and Sebastian sobs, blue of those eyes swallowed up by black, drowned in sensation. Chris pulls him closer, bodies aligned. The pebbled shower-tile’s cool and excited under his feet, and the air crackles with dark anticipation; Chris cups his submissive’s ass with his free hand, fingers searching and finding. They keep lube in the shower for moments like this—though they’ve never done _this_ before, and Chris’s heart’s pounding fast with dreadful excitement—and it’s the work of a moment to slip one finger into Sebastian’s tight entrance, then two and three, pressing deeper, seeking out that bundle of nerves.  
  
Sebastian lets out a wordless cry, legs trembling. Chris works his prostate mercilessly and strokes his cock with the other hand, pausing occasionally to press a palm over his groin and increase already interminable pressure, a cruelty that earns a whimper and a small spurt of liquid from the tip of his submissive’s cock. Sebastian’s barely upright, arms around Chris’s neck keeping him there; his head falls against Chris’s shoulder. Chris is more turned on than he thinks he’s ever been: head spinning, dizzy with racing sparks, yet oddly focused too. Sebastian’s his whole world. He’s taking care of Sebastian, giving him what he needs. Intoxicating. Sobering. Both at once. Like being high but grounded, Sebastian as his anchor, and maybe this is what subspace feels like, or the Dominant version, he doesn’t know, but it’s an unbearable sweet tender yearning and he just needs _more_.  
  
“Tell me,” he demands, “who you belong to,” fingers rubbing over that sweet spot inside him. Sebastian sobs out, “You, Chris, yours—yours, I’m yours, please—yours—” shaking head to toe amid the sensory onslaught.  
  
“Good,” Chris agrees, “so good, now let it go, come on, let it go for me—” and flicks a thumb over the dripping slit of his submissive’s cock-head. And Sebastian does, cock heavy and fat in Chris’s hand, pissing himself at Chris’s command, sobbing confusedly as his body finds release. Chris gazes at him, amazed; hot golden wetness spills to the floor of the shower, and Sebastian’s beyond shame and Chris is beyond caring about the kinkiness or the social taboo, only thinking white-flame thoughts about _mine, yes, completely_ , as Sebastian loses control in his hand.  
  
Sebastian’s cock’s still hard as the last drops fall; Chris still has fingers inside him, and uses them, working over that electric place, ordering, “Come,” and Sebastian does that too, hole clenching around Chris’s fingers; pearly-white fluid jets from his cock this time, joining the mess on the tile floor as his length slides wetly through Chris’s fingers. He goes limp after, nearly sliding to the floor, head lolling against Chris’s shoulder; Chris kisses his cheek, whispers, “Color?” and gets a faint moan that contains the words “green, sir,” so they’re good, and can continue.  
  
So Chris does.  
  
He spins his submissive around and shoves him down, on hands and knees. Sebastian falls willingly, body lax and well-used. He’s utterly pliant, barely conscious—enough to nod when Chris checks, though, so that’s okay—and shuddering faintly from the aftermath, uncontrollable tiny twitches and shivers. Chris’s heart quivers and swells: he’s done this, taken Sebastian this far down, debauched and debased and filthy and loving it. The good-guy section of his brain’s more than a little horrified at what he’s contemplating next, but he’s working on instinct now, and if Sebastian’s not stopping him, well, he’s going to take this chance to see how far they can go.  
  
He kicks his submissive’s legs further apart. The shower’s big enough and built for them; even spread, Sebastian’s legs don’t hit the wall or the glass door. Chris kneels between them, slips a hand under him, finds the low hanging weight of his cock. Half-hard again already at the rough handling; Chris grins. “You love this, don’t you? Knowing you’re mine, knowing you belong to me, knowing this—” With a squeeze to delicate flesh, as it stiffens even more in his grip. “—belongs to me…” He lets go, moving hands to his husband’s ass, spreading him open there too: fingers at the rim of his hole, where he’s loose and slick from the finger-fucking. Sebastian moans, cheek pressed to textured tile, eyes closed. His body flutters around Chris’s fingers as they hold him open and exposed.  
  
“I could keep you right here,” Chris muses, “could keep you here while I look at you, inside you…so fucking ready for me, aren’t you? Just needing to get fucked, needing me in you…I could fuck you right here, on the floor, where you got off from me tellin’ you when to piss, holding your cock while you did it, and you wanted it…”  
  
Sebastian’s crying in earnest, possibly from the humiliation or the ceaseless stimulation of words and touches when he’s already come once; Chris bends over, draping his warmth across his submissive’s body, and breaks character, lips brushing Sebastian’s cheek. “Still okay? Color?”  
  
Sebastian’s shaking under him, random involuntary shivers as endorphins and sensations do their job of overwhelming, but whimpers, “ _Verde_ ,” which means both green and that English is presently out of the question. Chris kisses him gently—on the ear, because that’s the easiest spot to reach—and sits back, kneeling between those wonderful long legs.  
  
He means to fuck Sebastian, and he wants to, very badly—he knows the way Sebastian will come apart for him, a creature of pure instinct now, drifting in the currents of that shining submissive high, and he knows how good that’ll feel for them both. But, hearing the echo of his own words— _you belong to me, you got off from me telling you to hold it and then to piss yourself on command, you give me that control, even that, you give that over to me_ —he’s had an idea.  
  
It’s a horrifying fascinating unimaginable idea, and he’d never try it any other night. But he feels a little lightheaded, bewitched by the emotions of this night and the heady knowledge that he _can_ , that Sebastian’ll let him do anything he wants at this moment in time, that Sebastian’s here with him and has given permission, and also Chris _does_ kind of need a certain form of relief after the champagne, especially now he’s thinking about it—  
  
He touches Sebastian’s stretched pink little hole, teasing, spreading. Sebastian’s hips jerk helplessly, unthinking and wanton and pleading for more.  
  
Chris takes his cock in hand. Says, and he can’t believe that’s his voice saying those words, low and raw and dirty, “You know you’re mine, sub, you know I took you and claimed you and you belong to me, I’m thinking I should mark my territory,” and then lets his body release, bladder emptying, cock aimed squarely at his submissive’s finger-fucked lube-slick hole.  
  
He can tell the second Sebastian realizes, because there’s a gasp from the floor, but then there’s a quiet moan, and Sebastian’s body seems to soften and yields all over except for where he’s got his hips up, as if the surrender and the subjugation and the humiliation are complete and welcome. His face, what Chris can see of it, looks blissful and dazed, lips slightly parted, unprotesting. Flying, and euphoric, while Chris pisses inside him and fills him up and marks him, takes him, watches drips run down his thighs.  
  
Chris, enraptured by the sight of him, quite suddenly desperately needs to fuck him, to plunge inside that submissive body and feel all that blissfulness everywhere. To make Sebastian feel even _more_ , infinite heights of pleasure, taken and speared on Chris’s cock.  
  
He lines himself up. Pushes in. It’s wet and messy, no resistance at all, and he can feel himself, which might be unpleasant but somehow only excites him further: he’s covered Sebastian in himself, made Sebastian his in every possible way, and if it’s messy it’s only evidence of the claim. Sebastian moans as Chris bottoms out, buried inside him to the hilt; Sebastian’s voice sounds utterly wrecked, shredded by emotions and tears and the press of tile against his cheek. Chris thrusts into him, knowing it won’t last long, too close, too good as wet heat engulfs his rigid length; pulls back, slams in again, ungentle and earning another delicious sound. Sebastian’s hips rock upwards at the next thrust, meeting him halfway but without any rhythm, simply seeking more sensation; so Chris reaches around and grips his cock and pumps that too, pounding into his prostate simultaneously. Sebastian’s whole body shudders, rippling muscle, insensate and delirious with ecstasy and use.  
  
Chris strokes him faster, feels his own hips stutter and speed up, feels Sebastian’s body tighten around him—and he’s coming, orgasm rolling up from his toes and down his spine, a crescendo that peaks in his cock, as he pours his climax out into Sebastian’s body, adding that wetness to what he’s already put there.  
  
He pulls out just before Sebastian can come—he squeezes his submissive’s cock, hard enough to hurt, and Sebastian actually wails, a drawn-out bewildered cry of denial and distress, but doesn’t safeword out. Chris grins, drops a kiss at the base of his spine, and teases his hole with a finger, tracing around the rim, looking on in awe as muscle twitches vainly against nothing, as slickness—as everything Chris’s put there—trickles out and slides leisurely down long lean thighs.  
  
Sebastian’s crumpled under the water, weeping quietly but not asking for any breathing room: he’s taking what Chris chooses to give, deprived of orgasm, kept on display by Chris’s hand. Chris kisses his back again, tracing the line of vertebrae with tongue and lips and the scratch of beard, and murmurs, “So good, baby, you’re doing so good, so fuckin’ beautiful, wish you could see yourself, all covered in me, dripping with me, all mine…”  
  
Sebastian’s hips jerk in reponse. “Shh,” Chris soothes, kneeling down there with him, one hand remorselessly fondling his prettily red cock, the other trailing feather-light caresses over his thoroughly-used hole. “Shh, almost, just a little more…” And he slides two fingers back in, finds that swollen lightning-bud place, and rubs at it, whispering, “Okay, baby, come for me, now.”  
  
Sebastian’s muscles stiffen, body convulsing with it; his cock pours its last reserves out over Chris’s hand, and Chris doesn’t let up, stroking him through the waves inside and out. Sebastian quakes all over, once, twice, sobbing; and then collapses, passing out.  
  
Chris instantly panics a little, even though he’d been half expecting that; he’s pushed his husband awfully far, physically and emotionally, and he’s feeling airless himself. This doesn’t make the sudden lead-weight fear any easier.  
  
Holding Sebastian in one arm, he lunges for the knob, flips the shower to cooler temperatures, getting kindly water to stream over heated bodies and tile; he flops back down on the shower floor and gathers Sebastian into his lap, stroking exhausted hair out of closed eyes, touching a still cheek, saying all the words he can think of: praise and promises of care and affirmations of love and pride and awe at what Sebastian’s let him do…  
  
Sebastian’s already waking up. Pale turquoise eyes drift for a second, vague, but regain clarity when they land on Chris’s face. “Chris…”  
  
“Right here.” He runs a hand over his husband’s hair again, hopeful and helpless and trying. Those feelings band together into a strange splendid ache inside his chest. “I love you.”  
  
“ _Te iubesc,”_ Sebastian whispers back, and hides his face in Chris’s chest for a minute, breathing, crying a little: aftermath and ebbing endorphins and comprehension returning. The water plummets down from above and cascades over naked skin, annealing and cleansing as a waterfall.  
  
“You’re fucking amazing,” Chris says, holding him, rubbing his back, holding on. “I can’t even—God, I can’t believe I—you let me—are you all right, please be all right, I mean you don’t have to talk if you can’t yet, I mean I’m sorry, I’m a moron, I love you.”  
  
“I’m all right.” Sebastian, without moving, kisses Chris’s collarbone: lips over skin, tangible assurance. “Somewhat astonished by your enthusiasm. I’m not certain I can stand up.”  
  
“You don’t have to.” Chris shifts a knee, leans back against the calm support of the back bench, feels water splash down his face. “You’re perfect like this.”  
  
“At some point we may need to get out of the shower…your art, my piano, food…”  
  
“Nah. I’ll bring you food. And a waterproof keyboard. And, here, art.” He draws a heart in water-droplets. On Sebastian’s chest. Where he can feel the beat of Sebastian’s heart in turn, when he flattens his hand over muscle. “Completely a masterpiece. You know I mean you.”  
  
Sebastian raises a very eloquent eyebrow at this assessment, despite being cuddled in Chris’s arms on the shower floor.  
  
Chris sighs. “You are all right…?”  
  
“I am.” Sebastian gets an arm around his waist. “Extremely tired. And I might need to cry again. But I liked it.”  
  
“You kinda passed out,” Chris says, giving casual voice to the terrible fear, “at the end.”  
  
“Not exactly. I could hear you. Talking to me. I just couldn’t…everything got very far away.” Sebastian waves a hand, not quite coordinated yet, weak; Chris catches it and folds beloved fingers up in his. “It felt good, though. Like floating, like being weightless…I knew you were there. Being my tether. I still feel very…I don’t know the word…”  
  
“Dizzy? Off-balance? Don’t move too much.” He tries to surreptitiously check his submissive’s heart-rate. “Vertigo?”  
  
“Not quite…maybe off-balance. Emptied out, but made…clearer somehow. Inside. Can people be clear? Is that something you can say in English? More peaceful.”  
  
“It’s not really,” Chris says, thinking about it, thinking about how he feels with Sebastian’s comfortable weight in his lap, “but no, I get it, I think. Like everything makes sense, falling into place, right where you should be…”  
  
“Yes.” Sebastian’s smile’s luminous and weary. “Yes. Like I’m more myself. When I’m yours.”  
  
“God,” Chris says, honest and heartfelt, “how did I ever fuckin’ deserve you?”  
  
Sebastian sits up a bit more, so they’re nose to nose. The shower-water’s playing in his eyelashes, lining them with diamonds, flirting with the blue of his eyes. “You gave me art. And you cared about whether I wanted to say yes, at our ceremony. And I fell in love with you.”  
  
“I love you,” Chris whispers, arms tightening around him, “so damn much.”  
  
“I’m here,” Sebastian whispers back, because Sebastian is perfect and always knows exactly what Chris’s anxious battered heart needs to hear, “I’m here and I love you and I’m not leaving you, not ever, you won’t lose me, you already _have_ me, all of me. Forever. And you’re going to bring me chocolate after we get out of this shower, the extra-dark bar with candied orange peel and bergamot, please.”  
  
Chris tries to laugh and weep simultaneously, and manages, “Oh, all right…you and the orders…and the chocolate, I didn’t even know we had that one…you said you might need to cry…”  
  
“I might,” Sebastian says. “I want you to hold me. To hold me a _lot_. And tell me I’m—that I was—”  
  
“That you were good?” At the nod, Chris leans forward and kisses him, quick and firm. “You were. You always are. I know I pushed you, and you took it, you did everything I asked, you were so fuckin’ good, and you—you liked it, right? You said you did. You—are you _blushing?_ ”  
  
“I liked it,” Sebastian mutters, obviously coherent enough by now to be embarrassed after the fact, “but I’m not certain I can ever _talk_ about it. You know how much I enjoy being yours. And that was…well. Very much about me being yours.”  
  
“All of you,” Chris agrees, kissing him deeply, kissing him until Sebastian forgets to be embarrassed and kisses back, “mine. And you know what I want to do with you now?”  
  
“…I may be afraid to ask. Though not really. Of course not.”  
  
Chris knows. Sebastian feels safe with him. He’s made Sebastian feel safe. “I want to wash your hair—and the rest of you—and put you in bed and feed you your weird orange-tea-flavored chocolate—”  
  
“There is nothing weird about candied orange peel!”  
  
“—and keep you warm. And hold you. A lot.”  
  
“I like your plan,” Sebastian says, letting Chris gather him up off the tile and into strong arms that steady him when he wobbles, letting Chris kiss him again and run hands through his hair and rest their heads safely together under falling shower-rain.


	12. anniversary plans (the g-rated version)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris knows how to play the piano a little. He wants to learn more. He wants to surprise Sebastian with a love-song on their first anniversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...sort of somewhere between a short fic and headcanon? Not quite a fic, but more in-character and more Chris POV than headcanon generally would be, and I needed someplace to put it, so...here it is!
> 
> More or less canonical; I don't know if it'll come up in the main story (if that story arc goes as far as an anniversary), but I like to think this happens.
> 
> Written for [yensasha on tumblr](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/120584297264/omg-chris-on-the-piano-singing-with-scott-this), who saw [the video of Chris and Scott Evans singing while Chris plays the piano](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/120578443724/xhex-hess-from-scott-evans-yt-channel), and who suggested that this was clearly Chris in this 'verse trying to surprise his husband.

Chris knows how to play the piano a _little_ , sure. He’s had all the artistic theater-kid experiences. He talks Sebastian into teaching him more, demonstrating some things–-he’s showing interest in what his husband does, and that’s true, and Sebastian takes it that way and gets thrilled and even more in love and shyly excited about showing Chris tunes and notes and four-handed duets, and oh Chris loves the way those pale eyes light up when Sebastian’s earnestly enthusiastically explaining a sequence. 

(Maybe Chris pretends not to get a couple easy chords. Y’know. So Sebastian can show him again. Warm and laughing and kind of impressively authoritative beside him on a piano-bench, and that warmth and kindness and teacher-voice combination, plus Sebastian’s occasional glancing up through eyelashes- _-is this okay, sir, oh you do like me like this, okay then-_ -well, that just goes right to Chris’s cock and gut and the base of his spine, and sits there pooling into heavy hazy leisurely desire.)

So Chris is learning, but Chris has an ulterior motive, and it’s to learn a love song and perform it for his husband–his _husband!_ –on their first anniversary. 

He’s going to be awesome. 

Despite how much Scott laughs, he’s sure he will be. (Actually Scott helps him out: practicing with him, singing along, giving him practice space, not mocking him _too_ much.)

He _is_ going to be awesome, because he’s doing it for Sebastian; so he just smiles every time he fucks up a sequence of notes, smiles and starts over, because he’s only going to get better and learn from any mistakes, he’s improving, and Sebastian deserves the best that Chris can give.


	13. interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris and Sebastian go on record about their marriage and their dynamic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Outsider POV (the byline is a very tiny Iron Man joke); and this one is absolutely canonical.
> 
> Written as a birthday-present for [thebestpersonherelovesbucky](http://thebestpersonherelovesbucky.tumblr.com/).

_**Happy Birthday to Chris Evans**  
L. Bibb, Contributing Author_

I arrive at the home of Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan on a sunny summer afternoon, surrounded by the cheerful noises of New York at four pm and the abrupt blanketing quiet when my taxi finds their street. The apartment building’s Victorian, with old imposing bones, but it’s been recently remodeled and is, in an understated way, one of the most sought-after addresses in the city. It looks like a place an artist and a composer might live, I decide, surveying arched windows and quirky grey stone.  

The apartment building has a doorman who checks my name against a list. I am expected, he confirms, and waves me up. I feel his eyes on my back as I get into the nondescript elevator. I am a journalist, doing an at-home interview; I’m not a resident. I am curious about the source of this fierce loyalty, but maybe Chris and Sebastian will tell me. I push the button for their floor.

Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan don’t agree to many interviews, at least not joint ones; I’ve met Sebastian Stan once before, albeit briefly, on a Hollywood red carpet. That was before anyone knew that he was a submissive, that he was hiding an explosive secret, that he and his now-husband and Dominant would change the world. I wonder whether he’ll remember me. He’s had a lot to think about lately.

Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan are, at the moment, the most recognizable symbols of the equal rights campaign, the war submissives are fighting to be recognized as full citizens with unimpaired choices. They have spoken before about how unintended—but welcome—this positioning has been. Today I am here to explore the tension between what they might’ve intended and what they’ve accomplished. After multiple reschedulings and delays and time changes, they’ve found an hour to talk, and have invited me into their home.

I find the correct door—it resembles the rest along this floor, plain and unpretentious—and knock. I’m not certain what I’m expecting: revolutionary artwork on the walls, Sebastian’s piano ringing out freedom marches, or possibly even the other extreme, an old-fashioned household with kneeling cushions and ties attached to furniture. Chris Evans was raised in a more traditional if liberal family, with his mother as a Family Head and fearless Dominant; I know that Sebastian wears a collar in public at least.

I’m not sure they’ve heard me. I knock again. The door’s yanked open before I even lift my hand away, albeit opened by only one half of the couple in question.

This is both a surprise and not. Chris Evans has willingly spoken about his anxiety, therapy sessions, and discomfort in social situations, but Chris Evans is a nice guy from head to toe, and so greets me, a guest, with a firm handshake. Sebastian’s upstairs, he informs me after saying hi, and then yells, “Sebastian!” Evidently formality is not on the table today.

Sebastian—presumably—calls something back that may not be in English, followed by one or two hectic thumps of overhead motion and a shimmery musical coda. “Sorry,” Chris Evans says, waving me into the apartment. “He had an idea. I live with a composer, y’know? I mean, we’re both artists. I mean, sorry, he really will be right down, it’s just his office is upstairs.”

It’s completely fine, I assure him. I’m appreciating the view. Chris gives me a brief tour of the downstairs half of the two-story luxurious space: modernized kitchen, open living room, the spare room that’s serving as an artist’s studio on the first floor and populated by half-finished canvases and found-object boxes and a vast array of texture and dazzling color. Chris apologizes for not taking me upstairs—“I know, I know, our bedroom’s up there, everybody always wants to know, but his office is up there too and I’m not gonna interrupt!”—and then leads me back to the kitchen.

My overall impressions are of wide windows and bookshelf-draped walls, decorated in simple warm tones. The polished baby grand in the corner and the billows of the sofa predominate; along the tour, I observe floor cushions and kneeling pads scattered about, and a hardcover copy of Neil deGrasse Tyson’s latest bookmarked on a couch-arm. The swoop of the windows reveals city spires beyond, New York in all her bustling summertime Big Apple majesty. I conclude that inquiry into the cost of this space would be tactless. Probably.

“Sebastian likes airy,” Chris Evans says. Chris Evans is wearing dark-wash jeans and a maroon Henley that’s open at the collar and showing a hint of tattoo-lettering along his collarbone. Chris Evans in person looks like the sort of mountaineer who might rescue lost tourists, bring them home to his cabin, and make them hot chocolate from scratch over a fire he’s built with his own two hands while reassuring them that everything’s going to be just peachy, and everything wouldn’t dare to be otherwise. The unfussy gold of his wedding ring glints in a sunbeam when he gestures. “Big windows. High ceilings. And we both like history. Stories. Anything he wants, though.”

Can I quote you on that? I inquire. Chris laughs. “Totally.”

I must look a little skeptical. Chris’ eyes narrow a fraction. He means it, he says. Anything Sebastian wants, always. “I love him. If there’s anything I can do to make him smile, I will.”

I want to ask a very specific follow-up question. Chris’ shoulders tense, picking up my intent. “Not just because of the…what happened last month.”

He’s okay? I ask.

“Fine. He handled it better than I did.” We’re talking about the incident outside of Sebastian’s gym, the month before; that news story’s mostly faded from public consciousness, though apparently not from Sebastian’s Dominant’s. The short version of the story relates how, as Sebastian left the gym in question—a local place frequented by Broadway types and actors needing to get into shape—two militant conservatives had begun following him, uttering threats and catcalls. Sebastian and his personal trainer had turned around, prepared for a physical altercation, and then watched both men run away.

“He can take care of himself,” Chris says. “He started doing martial arts, like, Krav Maga and shit, when they were filming _Winter’s Soldier_ , he’s friends with some of the actors and the stunt guys, has been since the first movie, and they were putting together the choreography and fight routines, and we thought—he wanted to, too, he liked the idea. Just for the fun of bein’ able to, I don’t know, menace someone with a coffee cup or a book or something. So he’d’ve been fine. I know that. I believe that.”

You thought it would be useful? If he needed to fight?

“Yeah…it’s…” Chris stares out the picture window. Straight into a sunbeam, which must be scorching his eyes, because they water. “Some of the shit people say, social media, letters…not the obvious crazy ones, but the ones that say he needs to be taught a lesson, to know his place…that I’m not doin’ my job…but they come after him more. And I can’t follow him around, I can’t save him from—I don’t know how to—God, this is getting depressing, can we move on?”

You want him to stay safe, I say.

“I need him to stay safe,” Chris says, and that truth is so raw and white-boned in the sunlight and so unapologetically acknowledged that it silences me for a few seconds.

“Anyway,” Chris adds, “if the, um, building security gave you a hard time, they’re kinda protective of him too. Did they?”

Only a little.

“Yeah, that happens. Everybody loves him.”

And you don’t mind? I’m kidding, because Chris Evans doesn’t strike me as the jealous overbearing Dominant type.

“Yeah,” Chris says, flawlessly straight-faced, “I spank him until he cries every time another person even looks at him. No, come on, seriously?”

I shrug: sorry?

“I spank him if he deserves it.”

Chris may or may not be joking. I’m not quite sure how to respond. Chris, noticing this dilemma, explains, “By which I mean if we both feel like it and it fits the mood. He enjoys it. And, like I said, whatever he wants. I might get to decide the, y’know, how and when and how much, but that’s because he wants me to.”

That’s very progressive of you, I hint, inching around to the more political and less personal. Chris makes a face, not entirely amused. He’s friendly but the walls’re coming up. “It’s not if you think about submissives as people who deserve—”

At which point Chris’ husband comes flying into the living room, breathless and apologizing in multiple languages, of which I understand precisely one. “—sorry, sorry, I just had to—I had a—with the cello— _Îmi pare rău,_ Chris—”

“—the cello,” Chris repeats, but he’s reaching out, tugging Sebastian to his side, smiling, and I understand that I’ve never seen Chris Evans smile before now. “Love you.”

 _“Te iubesc,”_ Sebastian says promptly, “always,” and kisses him. With great attention to detail.

I ponder after a minute or so whether I should look away. They don’t seem to be embarrassed, however. And this is their home. And they are very pretty together. Chris has both hands in his submissive’s dark hair. Sebastian arches up into the touch.

After a while they remember that I exist. “Sorry,” Sebastian apologizes again. “You’re here for the interview? Am I late?”

Not really, I demur. It’s your time. Chris beams at his husband fondly, without any discernable inclination towards punishment for tardiness.

Sebastian Stan has the sort of beauty that’s at once immediately striking and oddly disarming: long legs, high cheekbones, strong jawline, dimpled chin, dark rumpled hair, enormous aquamarine eyes. He’s wearing striped socks and faded jeans that would be fashionable but have a large messy ink-streak, the sort left by an uncapped pen, across one thigh, plus an unremarkable navy-blue t-shirt. His wedding ring’s gold and exactly matches his Dominant’s.

He’s also wearing a collar. A large, black, unmistakable submissive’s collar. Not a fashion accessory, not with the complicated double buckle in back and O-ring in front. That’s a political statement if I’ve ever seen one, and he looks calm in it.

He’s rubbing an elbow, ruefully. Chris Evans says, “Bannister, or doorknob?”

“Door frame,” Sebastian says, and, to me, “If I at some point trip over your feet, I am apologizing in advance. Did Chris offer you a drink? And have we met before?”

I’m tempted to ask whether this battle with home furnishings happens on a daily basis, but instead I answer the actual questions, impressed by both his memory and generosity in remembering; it’s a quality not all celebrities share. My reply about the red carpet leads to Sebastian proclaiming enthusiastically “I _thought_ you looked familiar, how have you been?” and then offering to get us drinks, which leads to his Dominant ordering him to sit down and stay put. The note I write down is: _S. listens for 5 sec. and then gets out cheese & crackers._

The cheese is goat cheese infused with blueberries and port wine. It’s a revelation.

Chris Evans says, “Seb…”

“I know you would have,” Sebastian says, “but you don’t know where our cheese board is, sir.”

To me, Chris admits, “He’s not wrong,” and, to his husband, “Okay, but now go sit down.” Rather impressively, given their relative equality thus far, his submissive instantly perches on a bar stool across from the one I’m being waved to. The kitchen’s bright and sunny, white and grey, cool granite and delicious blueberries. It’s early afternoon, and the summer’s sprawling around us. I’m here in the home of Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan, the most visible symbols—inadvertently or not—of the submissives’ reform movement, and they’re getting distracted by expensive cheese swirled around with blue-violet juice, which Sebastian’s licking off pianist’s fingers.

Chris Evans blinks, shakes himself, and belatedly offers me coffee, herbal tea, water, orange juice, or beer, while getting out the latter for himself. I opt for beer as well, because why not. “Good choice,” Chris confides, “Sebastian’s never really understood the awesomeness of Sam Adams, but we’re workin’ on it.”

“We are not, sir,” Sebastian sighs, and glances at Chris; signals exchanged and approved, he hops up and fetches a deceptively simple transparent glass bottle, and then gets a far too wicked look in pale eyes and pours me a shot. I consider this. He pours himself one too. The air practically shimmers with a haze of alcohol.

When half of the current media-darling couple dares you to do a shot, you do it. So I do.

And then I cough, choke, and splutter helplessly. My mouth tastes like pepper and berries and gold and fire. Sebastian Stan, internationally acclaimed composer and musician, appears utterly unaffected. Sebastian Stan is some sort of demon.

Chris Evans observes helpfully, “He can out-drink pretty much everyone we know.”

I glare, and stick with my beer. Sebastian says meekly, “Sorry,” but we’re on a shared near-death-experience level of intimacy now, so I say “No you’re not,” unless that’s the alcohol talking. Sebastian grins and makes himself a martini that ought to be one hundred percent fatal, and sits down.

So, I attempt, casting about for proper questions as the back of my throat burns. Important day.

“Yes,” Sebastian agrees sweetly. “It’s his—”

“—my birthday, but—”

“—birthday.” They evidently finish, or jump right into, each other’s sentences. “It’s an extremely important day.”

Happy Birthday, I say. I had been aware of this fact prior to today’s interview, but had temporarily forgotten, because Chris Evans’ submissive is made of grey-turquoise-eyed adorable evil.

“Thanks,” Chris Evans says. “We know what you mean, though. No verdict yet.” He’s got a tablet with the internet browser open, propped up on the counter. Sunshine splashes the corner.

It is an important day. We’re waiting for the answer to come down. A court case, at the highest level. A submissive bringing formal suit against the Hollywood Director’s Guild for discrimination. He’d had a Dominant—one of his actors—and they’d ended a long-term contract amicably. This had led to concerns about lack of control, and lack of ability to exert authority over actors, and expulsion from Hollywood and several film contracts, and hence this lawsuit.

The submissive in question and his Dominant are still friends. The man’s supporting this move. They’re also both good friends with a certain well-known composer, one who happens to be sipping a lethal martini across a sun-painted kitchen countertop from me.

You filed a friend of the court brief, I ask, didn’t you?

“We both did.” Sebastian takes another sip of his drink. I notice that he looks at Chris before answering. He’s been doing that all along, I realize, thinking back. I am intrigued. Sebastian Stan has—famously—never undergone formal orientation training. “Mine was more controversial, for obvious reasons. Chris doesn’t know them well. I do. I offered to serve as a character witness, but we were advised against that.”

I nod. Submissives have legal standing and can be called as witnesses, but their credibility tends to suffer from stereotyping about unreliability and susceptibility to control.

“We got legal advice,” Chris Evans says. “We got psychologists and experts in the field and everything. It’s just this massively fu—stupid idea, I mean, look at Seb, look at his career, everything he did before he ever met me—”

“Chris,” Sebastian interjects softly.

“Well, it is!”

Sebastian checks his own phone. No updates.

In an effort to divert the conversation away from present annoyances, I ask about birthday plans. Sebastian tells me that they’re having dinner with friends later, and tomorrow leaving for Boston—Sudbury, technically—to see Chris’ family.

I ask whether they’ve kept Chris’ old apartment in Boston even though I already know the answer. I’m curious to hear what they’ll say, and they don’t disappoint. “We like having both,” Chris says. “A place that’s ours, and a place that was mine first, so that satisfies the traditionalists, and also my mom. We’re thinking about a third house. Los Angeles.”

This is news to me. “Yeah,” Chris continues, seeing my expression. “Seb’s got meetings, like, every other week in Hollywood, and he likes the beach—hell, we both do—and we’ve got the money. So, LA.”

“Los Angeles,” Sebastian Stan echoes, drawing out the words like they’re a magic spell: exotic and entrancing. In that voice, any words would be: deep and peaceful and rich with hidden stories like layers of loamy earth.

This time the note I write down says: _remember that you are an objective journalist!!_

In the cheese-and-blueberry-themed pause, the Star Trek: The Next Generation theme rings out extra-loudly. Sebastian makes a face—“Sorry!”—and grabs his phone. Email. He reads. Stares at the screen for a minute. Doesn’t look at either of us.

Chris Evans shifts weight closer to him. Rests a hand on the nape of his neck, thumb rubbing the black leather of his collar. It’s a casual easy gesture; I get the sense of two people and one routine, comfort in tangible caress. Chris doesn’t verbally ask. Sebastian answers. “I’ve never been fired before…”

“What?” his Dominant demands, taking the phone. This meets with, I note, no visible objection on the other side. And then Chris starts swearing. Impressively. “They can’t do this.”

“Legally they can.” Sebastian reclaims his phone. He seems less ruffled by this news than one might expect. With a glance at me, he explains, “It’s not as bad as it sounds. My record label, the one with which I’ve released all three classical albums—”

“And the Christmas album!”

“—and the dreadful Christmas album…they’ve decided I’m too controversial and political for their public image.”

Chris Evans swears again.

“Chris.” Sebastian leans their shoulders together. Continuing to be unruffled. “I’m fine. We’re fine. We knew this might—” He’s interrupted. More science-fiction chimes. “Oh,” he says. “Marvel…oh. Well.” This time he hands the phone over before Chris can take it. “It’s a good one,” he adds, looking somewhat startled. “This one.”

“Hell yeah,” Chris says, reading. “They’re standing by you. Like, nine films worth of standing by you. And you have more messages. Ridley Scott. Meryl Streep. Since when do you know Meryl Streep?”

“Since the Academy Awards the year before we got married. She told me she liked the _America’s Captain_ soundtrack.” Sebastian sips his drink, waits tranquilly for the return of his phone. Chris hands it back. Their fingers entwine momentarily across electronic glow. “Sir Ridley wants to assure me that he’s keeping me on as composer for _The First Martian_ no matter what. Meryl…I…this is…I didn’t expect this.”

Chris touches his arm. “You always wanted to write an opera.”

“A rock opera…she barely even knows me. A story about family, and coming home, and rock and roll…songs that she can sing, that people’ll want to sing, a whole concert, I get to write a—do you think it’s political?” Sebastian fiddles with the stem of his martini glass, smearing wetness across the countertop. “A statement? Offering to hire me? Hiring me now?”

“I think she likes your music,” Sebastian’s husband retorts affectionately. “ ’Cause you’re fucking brilliant. Um. Sorry.” This last is directed at me and my notebook.

It’s okay, I promise him, our readers don’t mind.

“I kinda swear a lot,” Chris confesses. He’s drawing small concentric circles on the back of Sebastian’s hand, fingertips in motion. Sebastian’s being careful not to disturb the unthinking petting. “I try to watch my mouth in interviews, but it just comes out, y’know?”

Really okay, I say.

“Sorry we’re sort of interrupting your questions. I mean, it’s important, but you came all the way out here. Where’d you want to start?”

I have a list of topics in my notebook, but I know where I want to lead off. Your proposal, I mention. Even then you were attempting a sort of blending of tradition and modernization?

Chris glances at Sebastian. Sebastian’s mouth quirks: entertained. “That makes it sound way too deliberate,” Chris says. “I just…I was pretty much in love with him already and I couldn’t stand the idea of not…of us going into this thing fuckin’ blind.”

So you went to one of his concerts…

“He came to hear me play,” Sebastian concurs. “I knew he was there—I recognized him—but of course we didn’t speak…”

Did you ever?

“That,” Chris says, “is the kind of question we’re not gonna answer, because, no offense, whether we did or didn’t, it’s none of your business. We’re not goin’ there.”

“What my husband means,” Sebastian says, “is that we’ve had other…reporters…” With that inflection, in that smoky voice, the word transforms into something closer to _trash-scavenging greedy reptiles_. “…who’ve tried to discover any illegalities about our marriage in order to discredit us and dissolve the contract. And, as Chris said, it’s no one’s business but ours, whether or not we spoke beforehand, or whether my family made the decision alone.”

I note the infinitesimal stress on the verb _spoke_. Not accidental; Sebastian may occasionally walk into doorknobs and regret certain prior interviews, but he deploys his voice like one of his instruments: emphasis and passion precisely where he means it. In return for whatever it is I’ve just been given, I don’t push for more.

Sebastian grins as if I’ve passed some sort of test, and adds, “We nearly didn’t consummate the marriage on our wedding night, though.”

I’ve never heard _that_ story. I eye Chris Evans, who scrubs a hand over his face and groans. “You don’t have to tell that one…”

“Chris was being chivalrous,” Sebastian informs me. “He actually put clothes on me instead of taking them off. And fed me grapes.”

Grapes? I am fascinated. Also mostly done with my beer.

“Okay,” Chris jumps in, “see, the thing is, it was all fuckin’ wrong.” Chris Evans does indeed swear a lot. “I didn’t want the whole old-fashioned horrible aphrodisiac thing, and they did it anyway, and when I saw you…” He’s talking to his submissive now, not me. “I was so goddamn scared and angry, and you could barely stand up, and you couldn’t understand a word I was saying, and I couldn’t fuckin’ do that to you. Not to anyone. But absolutely not to you.”

“I forgot to eat breakfast,” Sebastian reminisces, “and I mostly recall being afraid I’d either pass out or have an orgasm merely from being touched. When they say aphrodisiacs…”

“That’s part of why,” Chris finishes. “Why we do this.” A handwave: by extension, this interview, and the numerous rallies and benefits they’ve attended and created art on behalf of. “No one else should have to go through that. Nobody else.”

“And it hurt you, too,” Sebastian adds quietly. “You, and Dominants in general, as well. It hurts you. To—to be expected to do that to another person…if you’d gone through with it, with me…any Dom who’s a good person would be hurt by the act, I think.”

“Not as much as you,” Chris mutters into his beer. “Not even close.”

“Lest you think we had a chaste wedding night,” Sebastian clarifies, lightening the mood with a lightning-quick smile, “we assuredly did not. After he fed me and ensured that I understood the concepts of yes and no and also English.”

“I didn’t know!” Chris protests. “I knew you were Romanian, and you’d been living in America, but we never talked, so—”

“He was spectacular,” Sebastian confides, smile as mischievous as his taste in alcohol. “If you were curious.”

I am and the entire world is, but I refrain. I drink more beer to drown the mental clamoring for details. Next on the list is their marriage settlement and the terms of the contract, which are a matter of record and were filed far too discreetly for a document so incendiary. Chris shrugs. Again, he says, that’s one of the things they didn’t think about, that he didn’t even think about, before just doing it. Sebastian’s his equal in every single way, and if Sebastian wants to visit family or spend that composer’s income on whatever he likes, that’s his prerogative.

Sebastian says, “Chris knows the password to my accounts.”

“I’m trying to be a good ambassador for the cause,” Chris says, “stop making us look uncool.”

No, I weigh in here, that’s good. This is meant to be an accurate portrait of your relationship, and part of the story is the way you’ve found equilibrium between the traditions you do follow and the ones you don’t, right?

“ _Da_ ,” Sebastian says. “Yes.”

“It’s about choice,” Chris says. “If he gets on his knees for me, it’s because he wants to. Because we both want him to. It’s always his choice.” These words mirror—purposefully or not—the famous ones, the ones everyone knows, the ones that’re on bumper-stickers and posters everywhere these days.

That earlier version comes from their appearance on the Daily Show several months ago. They’d walked out from the wings with Sebastian not only collared but on a leash, a slim black velvet cord that drank up gleaming overhead lights with onyx promises. The crowd had gone crazy. The host had shaken his head, taken aback and grinning, and said, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask, you and the—with your reputation as reformers, isn’t this kind of, well, the opposite?”

Chris had coiled fingers into the leash, pulling his submissive closer. Sebastian’d been glowing: a performance, one they’d rehearsed and sprung on us all as a surprise, but genuine pleasure evident at the act of possession, at belonging, at being good for Chris while on display. Bliss in half-lidded eyes, in the curve of his lips. Chris had put a hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck and said, “It was his choice,” and the words and the pride and the love had blown up across every social media platform instantly.

Stores sell the shirt with the black-and-white sketched outline, an artist’s rendition distilled to anonymity: two figures, one leashed and one holding the leash, and the stark black words: His Choice.

You love each other, I say—or the beer says; it’s inclined toward finding them adorable—very much.

“Yes,” Chris says.

“Yes,” Sebastian says.

The whole afternoon gets close-knit and cozy around us.

I do have my list of questions. Life, their marriage, maybe some topics they’ve never gone on record covering. I skip to one I hope they’ll answer, because it matters for understanding their motivation and commitment to the reform movement.

This might be a little personal, I begin, but can we talk about the circumstances behind your marriage? The way that you, Sebastian, were essentially forced to come out as a submissive, and whether that’s part of why you’re so invested in reform?

Chris and Sebastian trade looks. Chris puts a hand on his husband’s wrist. Squeezes: support, encouragement, shared emotion. Sebastian nods.

How do you feel about him? I ask. The club employee who broke the story?

Chris Evans makes a sound. It is not a friendly sound. I suddenly notice all over again how many muscles he has.

Sebastian Stan says he hasn’t spent much time thinking about it. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him,” he says. “I was…I kept that part of myself a secret. I thought of it _as_ a secret. I would’ve never met Chris if he hadn’t…done what he did. I don’t know if that’s an answer.”

So you don’t hate him?

“I…wish he hadn’t done it for money,” Sebastian says, looking at Chris’ hand on his wrist. “I would’ve understood more…ideological reasons, I think. If he’d believed that I shouldn’t be hiding. If it’d been about pride in what we are. But he took money for what he did to me.” Chris Evans’ other hand is slowly making a fist.

“I don’t know,” Sebastian says again. “Possibly he needed the money. I never heard anything about that.”

Chris Evans says flatly, “He didn’t need the money. He had a good job. He sold you out, and other people too, because he could.” I observe that the Dominant half of this relationship is disinclined toward charity, at least in this particular circumstance.

Do you feel that it was unfair?

“It was,” Chris says.

“It is,” Sebastian says, “but to answer your original question, yes. That’s part of why. Our marriage worked out. Others…may not have been so fortunate. And we’re complicated, of course; we’re not as burn-your-collar, sign-waving, reject the entire dynamic as…certain factions might wish we were. We chose this. We’re choosing this. That’s what we want, in the end. For everyone to have the right to wear the collar or not, whatever they individually decide.”

He checks his phone once more. No lawsuit-related news, good or bad.

Chris Evans rumbles, mountaineer glaring down the ghosts of grizzlies past, “You didn’t get to. Decide.”

“I did,” Sebastian says, “when you proposed to me the second time, sir. Would you like another beer?”

He trips over his bar stool while getting up, long legs of both human and furniture tangling bruisingly. His Dominant’s there in a heartbeat, hands on his shoulders, steadying him. Sebastian catches breath and looks up and their eyes lock and I let my gaze slide toward the granite countertop because the love and trust blazes too brightly on both sides to intrude on for long.

Sebastian murmurs something not quite audible. Chris says, “Yeah, me too,” and drops a kiss on his nose. “Okay, go on.” Sebastian heads demurely for the refrigerator. As he passes me I glimpse a hint of satisfied smile. Chris Evans plops back onto his own bar stool, spikes of anger flattened back down, eyes trailing his successfully rescued sub, tension gone from his frame. Hmm, I think.

Sebastian comes back with new drinks for all three of us. Chris scoots close enough to drape an arm over his shoulders. Sebastian settles into being held as if he’s exactly where he wants to be.

I return to the circumstances of their engagement. How did their respective families feel about the marriage? About the unconventionality?

Chris Evans says that his family was thrilled. They wanted him to find someone, he says. They were concerned about him being alone. Sebastian stretches up to kiss him, at that. “They love Seb,” he declares. “He’s pretty much been adopted. Forever an Evans.”

“I like it,” Sebastian says. “Forever and ever, an Evans.”

“Also Scott says if you ever divorce me he’s going to move in with you and never leave.”

“He very nearly does that now.”

“My brother’s a sub,” Chris says. “And that’s part of it, too.” He explains that his family’s always been fairly liberal, himself and his brother and his baseline sisters raised as equals, but they’d never drawn attention to themselves, no dramatic breaking with cultural tradition. “I did worry, though. Scott…I saw firsthand the way he got treated, the differences between him and me, the way people made assumptions about him after we were identified. Not good assumptions. You know. So maybe we were already sort of in the mood to fight this one.”

Makes sense, I agree.

“Anyway they couldn’t be happier. My mom goes on the internet, and I tell her to stay off the internet, but she just hangs out and tells off random people who say mean shit about us. It’s kinda great.”

That sounds great, I say. I’m waiting for Sebastian to weigh in with his side. Both my interviewees know it too, from the fleeting glance they exchange. The sunbeam skitters away behind a cloud, restless.

Sebastian smiles, oddly painful. His eyes slide away, chasing that nonexistent sunbeam over cool kitchen granite.

Chris tightens shield-wall arms around him. Defending his submissive from whirlpools and rocky perils ahead. “You don’t have to answer.”

I’ve inadvertently crossed into a minefield. I start to say it’s fine, he doesn’t have to if it’s a sensitive topic.

“No,” Sebastian says, “I can.” Chris looks at him with adoration and apprehension, practically tugging him off his own barstool and into a devoted husbandly lap. “I’m all right,” Sebastian says. “Sir. I should’ve been prepared to talk about—but I don’t mind.”

If you’re not comfortable, I start—

“No,” Sebastian says again, sitting up more, polishing off half his martini. “I only don’t…it’s not a secret, but it’s not common knowledge, either…it’s not a problem. My mother loves me. And she adores Chris, _da?_ She may not entirely understand why I…why we…want some of the things we want, in the bedroom, in the dynamic, but she wants me to be happy. Whatever that entails. And without her I’d’ve never—I’d not even be in America right now. My stepfather—” He stops. Chris Evans’ eyes are overflowing with compassion and desperate helpless love.

“Part of why,” Sebastian finishes, very small but clear, “why I had to get married quickly, why I needed a Dom who’d give me the standing and legal permission to keep my career, my income…my stepfather has Alzheimer’s. Advanced. Extremely.”

Oh, I breathe. Oh. I’m so sorry.

I am. I can’t even begin to comprehend the weight of everything contained in those syllables, and Sebastian Stan’s been carrying it for years. No wonder they’ve signed such a permissive contract, no wonder the unusual stipulation about visits home and disposable income. Chris Evans loves his husband. Written on the pages of that contract, written on his face as he watches Sebastian and openly admires all that courage.

Sebastian loves Chris Evans. I can read that love in his glorious weary appreciative smile. “Thank you,” he says to me. “ _Multumesc_. In Romanian. We’re doing okay.”

That’s why so many benefits and donations and auction pieces for Alzheimer’s research funding last year, I say, illuminated. Sebastian nods. Chris clears his throat. “Yeah.”

He did come to the wedding, Sebastian tells me. He knew where they were and what they were doing and why. “And he knows Chris is my husband. He asked me, the last time we visited, whether I was happy. He told me that that was good, when I said I was.”

I’m sorry, I repeat for lack of any other words coming to mind. I know that must be hard to talk about. Thank you.

“It is,” Sebastian says, “and it isn’t. It’s getting easier. Which I hate. But…we should. Talk about it. Visibility for that cause as well. Not only our own.”

I think a lot of people will be inspired by you, I say, and Sebastian looks a little embarrassed and a lot like he’s very glad his husband’s holding him at this second. So I steer the conversation toward less fraught waters, in case the Dominant in the room takes offense at any emotional injury I might’ve caused his sub. Chris Evans has thus far proven fairly laid-back, but laid-back in the way of a large powerful dog: friendly, playful, big-pawed, but strong and steadfast and capable of biting an arm off if need be. Shallower topics, for safety’s sake, then.

They’ve said they hadn’t spoken, following societal rules, but they were both relatively famous in their respective professions; were they fans of each other’s work at all?

Sebastian’s winter-turquoise eyes get hugely excited. And a tiny bit grateful. “Can we answer for each other? Please?”

“That’s unfair,” Chris says, “you have way more embarrassing stories about me. Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

Absolutely, I agree, flipping the notebook to a new page. The sunshine comes back, pouring gold across the kitchen floor.

“So, if I am Chris,” Sebastian announces, “I have every single album and soundtrack, and I have made my poor brother watch every single behind-the-scenes feature for every film ever scored by a certain composer, and also I may or may not have a great deal of experience with tumblr and fan sites and commentary about how well this music captures character and also this composer’s beautiful eyes—”

Chris Evans pretends to collapse across the table, head in arms, groaning.

“—and once wrote an extremely animated blog post on my own personal website about how inspirational the _America’s Captain_ soundtrack can be for finding the right mood for making art. Which I read back then, when you first put it up, by the way.”

“Oh God,” Chris sighs from behind his arms.

Sebastian pats his shoulder. “I won’t relate the part about your night of tipsy twitter posts regarding how unfair the Oscar loss was, and how sweet my smile is, and how you’d just really love to make me smile because I look like the sort of person who should be smiling. In your defense, you deleted those the next day.”

“So much tequila,” Chris remembers. “So, so much tequila. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not. I saved three of those tweets. You made me laugh.”

So, I say, at least one of you was already head over heels?

“Heels, toes, you name it,” Chris says, emerging from his sprawl on the table. “I couldn’t believe it, y’know, when I found out—when we all found out, and I hated it, of course I did, the way it happened, but—it meant I maybe had a chance with him.”

What about Sebastian’s side?

“Hmm.” Chris downs half his beer. “I don’t actually—I mean, I do know. You knew who I was. You knew the art. But you weren’t, like, composing drunken tweets about how good my lips would taste.”

“No.” Sebastian gazes into the depths of his new martini. It doesn’t leap up to fill the pause, so he goes on. “I’d seen your exhibitions…the collection with the Tibetan, Indian, Japanese influences, and the animal studies, and the installations you did for the children’s wing of that hospital…I remember thinking that you knew about loneliness. About searching for peace, for presence, for a sort of…acceptance of the moment. I could see you looking. I thought I’d like to know you.”

So—

Sebastian’s not done. “And I was scared.”

“Oh, Seb,” Chris breathes, putting arms back around him. “Of me?”

“Not of you,” Sebastian Stan says to him, though with a glance at me. “Or not precisely. I knew you were a Dom. I knew I was…a submissive. I knew if I got to know you…I thought I would like you. Maybe. You could be someone I would—and I couldn’t.”

Because you were keeping the secret?

“Because I was keeping the secret. If I’d gotten on my knees for Chris I’d’ve told the world that I should be wearing a collar and locked up at home.” Sebastian smiles, swift and sudden. “I do seem to be wearing a collar. Hardly locked up.”

“I love you,” Chris vows.

“And I love you. So you see,” he concludes, back to me, “I couldn’t let myself want him. Or anyone. But was I a fan, yes, I was.”

How much, I joke, for a Chris Evans original these days?

Chris laughs. “I don’t even know. Here—” And he takes away my notebook, flips to a blank page without looking at any of my notes, and suddenly has a pencil, appearing like a magic trick from thin air.

Any upcoming projects? I realize immediately upon asking that this may be a terribly insensitive question given minutes-ago firings and hirings. I open my mouth to take it back.

“We’d like to do something together,” Sebastian says. One more glance at Chris. “I have obligations, of course. To Marvel, to Sir Ridley, to Meryl, now. But we’ve been talking about it for a while. Fairytale-inspired, perhaps…my music, his art, maybe a short film…Chris loves animation, the old-fashioned hand-drawn kind, and he’d be brilliant at directing.”

“Not sure brilliant’s the word.” Chris is busy sketching. “How do you feel about cats?”

I like cats, I say.

“Good. We like cats, dogs, animals in general, we’ve just been so busy lately, wouldn’t be fair to get one right now.” He’s making a big fluffy tail come to life. “Besides, Seb’s basically a kitten.”

Sebastian considers this, then shrugs with eyebrows and a head-tilt: fair enough.

“He likes petting.”

“I do.” Sebastian sips his drink. It’s mostly gone. I’m mildly astonished he’s upright, assuming it’s made of the same highly flammable components as the first one. No word yet on the court ruling, as we wait. “That is one of our standing orders, by the way. Stay within petting distance whenever feasible. You can write that down. Chris likes being able to touch me.”

I would write it down, but Chris Evans has my notebook.

Sebastian puts the cheese board closer to my elbow. He looks a little concerned that I’m not eating enough to cushion the second beer. The sun’s getting lower in the sky.

What do you do for fun, I ask, on a typical day off? When you’re not working or inspiring social reform?

“You mean besides each other?” Sebastian muses innocently. I choke on my beer. “Seb,” Chris says without looking up, “behave.” It’s not really a scolding, or if it is it’s also amused. Sebastian starts to reply, stops. His cheeks’ve flushed the slightest bit pink: the admonition, the reminder, the alcohol, possibly even arousal at being chastised.

“I read,” he says, clearing his throat. “Science fiction, non-fiction…I like space. Other planets. Mars. Chris does, too. We have stargazing dates sometimes. I’d never been camping before the first time he took me, and the stars were so clear…” His voice gets softer, brighter, full of memory. “If you want a typical day off,” he says, coming back, “we probably sleep in…I make breakfast, because my husband is never allowed to touch my eggs again…”

“I bought you a new pan!”

“…we might watch a movie, or television—I’m trying to catch up on _Community_ —or stay in and read together. Chris likes philosophy, history, wilderness stories, and I always have scripts to look over. Sometimes we walk to Starbucks. And some weekends Chris plays pick-up basketball. I very much do not play pick-up basketball. I’d undoubtedly injure someone, likely myself, with my own elbows. But I spectate. Enthusiastically. Particularly when he is shirtless.” He does not mention going to the gym. He does grin, engagingly, and run a hand through his hair. “Too boring?”

Domestic, I suggest. Sebastian repeats the word. “ _Da_. Yes. That. I…like that.”

“Here,” Chris Evans says, handing back my notebook with a flourish. “I even signed it.”

I’m looking at a perfect miniature kitten: caught mid-pounce at a ball of yarn, fluffy-tailed and big-eyed, rendered in exuberant greyscale shades of pencil on paper, tabby-stripes practically stroke-able. Chris has indeed signed and dated the sketch. I’m holding several hundred thousand dollars in one hand.

“He’s got Seb’s eyes,” Chris says. “They’re supposed to be more blue than grey, but, y’know, pencil.”

“Hmm,” Sebastian says, and then, “May I?” Chris nods. This time Sebastian takes the notebook out of my limp hand and scribbles a caption under Chris’ signature— _Thank you, sir, I’ll pounce on you later!—_ and signs his own name. The price of my notebook ascends to staggering proportions.

Thank you, I say. Faintly.

“No problem,” Chris dismisses.

Time’s passing. They do have birthday dinner plans, and I’ve been here far longer than our originally scheduled hour. I flip back through questions. What do they hope for, for the future, for this verdict?

“Obviously we’re hoping for a win today,” Sebastian says. “But in the future…the freedom to choose. Legal restrictions lifted regarding acceptable professions. The ability to own and inherit property. The divorce laws were a good start.”

“The freedom,” Chris says, “for him to walk down the street and not be—for him to wear my collar if he wants to, or not wear it, and have nobody think any fuckin’ less of him either way.” Sebastian smiles at him.

Are you happy, I want to know. With the way this life has worked out for you?

“We’re still working things out,” Chris says, “every day, but yeah.” He looks at his husband. “Yeah.”

“Yes,” Sebastian says. No hesitation.

Do you have any advice for, or any words you want to share with, other Dom/sub pairs out there?

“Oh, man,” Chris says. “I don’t even know. Wow.”

Sebastian takes a thoughtful sip of the end of his drink. Sets it down. Gazes at his husband in sunlight. Answers, “Fairytales can come true.”

Happy endings? I ask.

“Yes. Not the easy kind. The kind you have to fight for. To choose again and again. To…learn how to be yourself for. So that you can believe it. Sometimes you learn that alone.” He touches Chris’ wrist, lightly; Chris turns his hand and captures long questing fingers in his. “Sometimes you learn with someone else. It’s your story, and the happy ending is what works for you.”

“Okay,” Chris says, “I’ve got one too. Not as awesome and eloquent as that, but.” He’s rubbing his thumb slowly over the back of his submissive’s hand. “Sometimes you get lonely, and maybe you lose someone, or you get lost, or you don’t feel like you’ve got enough to offer. But my mom told me something before our wedding. Remember to listen, she said. And even if I—if you—feel not good enough or alone or scared, you can do that, you can listen to someone else when they need it. And maybe that’s something, y’know? Just telling yourself ‘shhh,’ being quiet, and listening to another person, to their piece of the world.”

Sebastian’s blinking. Rapidly. A shine in pale winter-topaz blue. Chris reaches over with his other hand and swipes a fingertip through damp eyelashes: possessive, protective, loving. Sebastian shivers with emotion and leans closer.

Thank you, I say, meaning it. Thank you.

“Nah,” Chris says, a little roughly, gazing into his submissive’s wordlessly radiant eyes. “It’s just us saying words. Everyone out there’s got the harder part.”

Well, maybe the ruling today’ll help?

“Hope so.” Chris brings his husband’s hand to his lips, kisses it. “ _You_ stay right here, okay? Don’t move. I’ll be right back. You—” This last meaning me. “—I’ll walk you out.”

I can take three guesses at what they’re about to do, but I’m pretty sure I only need one. Sebastian’s regarding his husband like Chris is made of chocolate and spun-sugar and impossible enchantment: a wondrous delicious prince for that fairytale. And he murmurs, “Yes, Chris,” with darkening eyes, with a flush creeping across his cheekbones. Chris kisses him for that, hard, fingers looping into the leather of his collar; Sebastian’s lips remain parted after, euphoric.

Chris orders, “Hands in your lap, and _wait_ ,” and Sebastian makes a sound located someplace between an exhale and a yes and a moan, and nods and does as commanded.

“Sorry to kick you out,” Chris apologizes to me, ushering me door-ward. “We need to…I kinda want to take care of him. Right now. A lot.”

I tell him I one hundred percent understand. I do. I am also unaccountably warm under my suit. I shift weight, blushing, and shake his hand, and promise to send him a copy of this article, and wish them good luck on today’s ruling, and say happy birthday again, and say goodbye. He says thank you, says that they enjoyed having me, and also says goodbye, and shuts the door, no doubt impatient. Understandably so: if I had someone at home looking at me with those burning-snowflake eyes, I’d be impatient too.

The elevator ride down’s almost anticlimactic after the sizzling heat and the lack of resolution regarding the court case. I breathe out, and get a cab, and sort through my notes and my gift of art. The evening’s meandering in, summer-sticky and humid and heat-trailed. The interior of the cab is sunbaked and dry.

About two blocks into the ride, I get a text. I check: it’s a message from Chris Evans. It reads, in all caps, _FUCK YEAH WE WON HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME YOU CAN USE THAT AS HEADLINE!_

Trying not to laugh, I text back _Congratulations!_ My various social-media news feeds are exploding with updates and reactions: confirming this news, confirming a submissive’s right to embark on any career, confirming that discrimination on the basis of sexual inclination will be outlawed, that they’ve taken this step into a more equal future.

In reply I get a photo: Chris kissing Sebastian in a ray of sunlight in their kitchen, a shaky-handed off-center distracted selfie, a Dominant with one hand wound into his submissive’s hair and said submissive’s arms around Chris’ neck, hips up against the counter. They’re laughing into the kiss. It’s not their court case, not exactly, but it’s the verdict they’ve hoped for. It may be too late to change the circumstances of their marriage, but this kiss is about happy endings and beginnings and joy.

Sitting in my cab as it dodges city traffic, I agree: they’ve won. Against a hell of a stacked deck, too. Fuck yeah, Chris Evans, happy birthday to you.


	14. kitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they adopt a kitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s sort of non-canonical or maybe far-future canonical! In the main timeline they’re still getting used to living together and it’s probably a bit soon to add a kitten, plus it’s much harder to have sex in every room of the house with a curious feline around (trust me on this). 
> 
> Courtesy of [yensasha](http://yensasha.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr, plus that interview in which Sebastian said he'd want a Scottish Fold if he were stranded on Mars.

“I have a surprise for you,” Chris mentions.

He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, blocking Sebastian’s view of the living room; Sebastian can’t see past him. Chris’s hands appear to be empty; Chris’s tone’s tentative but hopeful.

He asks, “Do I wear it, eat it, or put it inside me, sir?” and licks his lips: mindful of the weight of his collar, of the texture of air and his Dominant’s gaze raising tiny shivers along his bare arms. He’ll be naked in a heartbeat if Chris asks; he’ll be on his knees as soon as Chris asks.

Chris’s last surprise had been of the vibrating variety, he remembers, and _decidedly_ enjoyable.

Chris snorts, which is not quite the response Sebastian’s expecting. “You may regret that phrasing in a minute, sub.”

“Ah…okay?”

A sound comes from the living room. A rustle, a squeak. Sebastian tries to see. Chris’s shoulders, while normally wondrous sculptures of godlike perfection, are currently impeding his vision.

“So, um,” Chris says. “So you know how you’ve never, um, and I like dogs, you said you like animals, and I thought we could, um, if you were up for, maybe a kitten to start with, if you would want to?”

“Sir,” Sebastian inquires very carefully, “what exactly are you asking me to do?”

Chris’s eyes get horrified. “Not whatever you’re thinking!”

“I’m not thinking anything!” Trying not to, at least. He may’ve been to far kinkier clubs than his adorable Dominant husband’s ever imagined, but even at his most self-degrading he’d had some uncrossable lines.

He might be willing to go as far as _dressing up as_ a kitten, though. If Chris asked. If Chris would pet him.

Aware that he’s getting distracted, he returns gaze and thoughts to his Dominant’s face. Chris is talking.

“—oh thank God. I don’t even know what that was gonna be, but thank God. Um. Okay. So you’ve never had a pet, and I grew up with animals, I mean, I was kinda more of a dog person, but this apartment and, um, all the stairs, it’d be kinda hard for walks, and—and you said in that one interview for the Mars movie that you’d bring a cat for company, um, so I thought…” Chris sighs. Gives up: “Okay, come on.” And waves a hand at the living room.

Sebastian ventures that direction. Stops. Stares at the cat-carrier sitting beside the table.

“She didn’t want to come out,” Chris apologizes, waving a hand with tiny kitten-inflicted war wounds as proof. “She—”

Sebastian walks past him and sits down on the floor. Big green-gold kitten eyes glower at him from the security of the carrier-cave.

“Hi,” he says to her. “Come on out, he’s really not that scary, he’s just loud sometimes. Big hands. Which are nice for petting.”

“Thanks,” Chris says.

“It’s okay,” Sebastian says to the kitten, holding out a hand, holding still. “Come on, _pisicuţă, reişi,_ sweetheart, that’s right…”

“Did you just name her?”

“Not unless you want me to name her ‘kitten,’ Chris.” The kitten ventures a step toward the front of the carrier and the big wide scary world. Then one more step. Then she seems to decide Sebastian’s hand looks and smells friendly, and bumps her head against his fingers.

Sebastian makes a sound that’s probably ridiculously happy. The kitten likes him.

He glances up. Chris is smiling: an expression of such fond adoration that it’s blinding, too much, too like the feeling in his own heart.

The kitten’s now out of her carrier and rubbing herself all over Sebastian’s hand. She’s a dandelion-puff of grey, a fuzzy stormcloud with folded-over ears and white paws. Sebastian’s never had pets, never had a cat, doubtless petting her all wrong, but, oh. She likes his hand.

“She’s, um, part Scottish Fold?” Chris says. “A mix? Because you said, in that interview, you said you liked them? I called around and found a shelter that had one? She has all her shots and I bought kitten food and a litterbox and some toys?”

“Oh, you did…” The kitten flops over on her back. Paws in the air. Purring. Letting him pet her stomach. Then she tries to play-eviscerate his fingers. Then she purrs some more. “Absolutely,” Sebastian agrees, “I like being petted too.”

Chris props a shoulder against the living-room wall. Watches. Grins, kind of to himself, not saying anything. Sebastian collects happy boneless kitten into both hands, cradling her to his chest, and gets up. “Chris. Thank you.”

“Kitten for my kitten,” Chris says, teasing but oddly sweetly quiet; and reaches out a fingertip to scratch a feline chin, meeting Sebastian’s eyes over grey-and-white fluff. “You’re still my favorite.”

“Even with Sally around?” Sebastian raises eyebrows. “She likes you.” She does. She’s got half-closed eyes, enjoying the chin-scratch.

“Sally—oh, you named her after the first female astronaut, of course you did…”

“Of course. If you don’t mind.”

“I like it.” Chris swoops in, kisses him: a breathless collision of lips and tongue and teeth. “I like you. Like this. All parental.”

“Hmm.” Sally’s getting restless, in the way of small energetic kittens. He sets her down on the sofa. She wobbles a step or two, sniffs a cushion, bats at one of Chris’s left-behind drawing-pencils. It rolls. She jumps, fluffs up even more, and swats it again. Harder.

“Okay,” Chris says, “so maybe I didn’t need to buy expensive cat toys. Wait, that’s an expensive _pencil_ —”

Sebastian starts laughing. Chris wraps arms around him from behind, hooks his chin over Sebastian’s shoulder, kisses his ear, kisses the tingling spot along his throat above his submissive’s collar. “Guess I’ve got two kittens to buy toys for.”

“Guess you do,” Sebastian concurs, echoing that phrasing and Boston accent just for fun, leaning back into his husband’s embrace. “I think I like being a cat-parent with you, sir.”


	15. bad colds and beetle-men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris takes care of his submissive when Sebastian has a cold, and Sebastian contemplates science-fiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for hitlikehammers, who has been having adventures with doctors and beetle acid.
> 
> Sort of semi-or-mostly-canonical, kind of crack; nothing non-canonical, but you could also skip it if you wanted; silliness regarding science-fictional premises, as inspired by real life.

Sebastian, Chris has learned in just over eight months of marriage, doesn’t get sick much. He gets chilly sometimes, and he forgets to eat sometimes, and he doesn’t like to fly, and he gets quieter than usual when he hasn’t seen even a hint of sunshine for weeks: these are things Chris has also learned, and Chris loves knowing every last stray bit of trivia about his husband, hoarding snippets like shining treasure. Chris can use this knowledge to keep his submissive warm and grounded and smiling with a quick colored-pencil sketch of them at the beach or a rewatching of _Star Trek IV_ and the space whales.

But Sebastian hardly ever gets _sick_. Not colds or the flu or any of those thousand minor annoyances that ordinary non-wonderful people get. Sebastian _is_ wonderful and hence Chris isn’t really surprised: no doubt no cold virus would dare to come near that genius. It’d be ashamed of itself for trying.

Except that right now one has, and so: Sebastian’s sick. Not seriously, just a bad cold, the kind that’s more frustrating than concerning, and hence just a tiny bit adorable, as Sebastian lets out little kitten-sneezes and cuddles wearily into Chris’s side and drowses off over beloved books. He’d been meant to fly to Los Angeles the day before for a film-project meeting, and had been seriously debating obligation versus illness; Sebastian hates letting anyone down.

Chris had put his foot down, though. He’s not Sebastian’s Dominant for no reason. No, he’d said. You’re staying home. You’re resting. That’s an order, and you’re going to follow it. Sebastian’d blinked fuzzily at him, nodded, and curled up in Chris’s lap and gone to sleep: trusting the order, trusting him.

Chris has been petting him and fussing over him and taking every opportunity to indulge every protective cherishing instinct. Sebastian, who’s mostly sleepy and a bit sniffly at this point, told him yesterday that this felt nice. Chris’s whole body glowed with pride. He’s Caring For His Submissive. Yes.

Right now he sits down on the couch beside the forlorn heap of blankets. Taps the laptop pointedly. “Are you working?”

“Only answering email.” His husband looks mildly guilty, having been caught, but only mildly. “Prospective projects. Film score offers. I may have to say no to the one about the fifty-foot beetle-man who spits acid. Though I do hate turning brand-new filmmakers down…”

Chris knows. Too sweet; too generous. Sebastian doesn’t like saying no to anyone’s dreams. Or, in more practical terms, useful money for those family expenses.

He hands over tea, the apple-cinnamon scent wafting peaceably through the room. “As your Dominant, I can order you to say no to that one, if it'll help.”

“You could…”

“But you actually really want to compose a theme sequence for a fifty-foot beetle-man.”

“I really do.” Sebastian drinks the tea, sniffles, grins. His hair’s sticking up on one side from his nap; he’s got the fluffiest blue-striped blanket they own around his shoulders; he’s wearing sweatpants and one of Chris’s Patriots t-shirts. Chris loves him unequivocally, permanently, joyfully. “But no, based on production value and professionalism—or lack thereof—in the email and prior Marvel obligations, I shall regretfully decline. He’s a doctor in his other life. The beetle-man.”

“You can always just write a version for fun. For free.”

“I might. Thank you, by the way.”

“I like making tea for you,” Chris says, wrapping an arm around him, tucking Sebastian in against his side, using the other hand to take the laptop away when his submissive doesn’t protest the questioning nudge at it. “I like you and your newfound obsession with beetle-men.”

“Obsession, indeed…just for that I _am_ going to write it. After I fall asleep on you.”

“Works for me,” Chris agrees, and holds him, pondering a gift of art and sketches and beetle-people and science-fiction poses and Sebastian dressed up as a superhero, while his husband finishes off the tea and yawns and sneezes twice and makes a exaggeratedly pathetic face. Chris laughs—Sebastian wants him to—and tugs the blanket more closely around them both, and coaxes Sebastian’s head down to rest against his chest. He’s kind of overly warm, himself, beneath the twin weights of blanket and person; but he doesn’t mind at all. He never will.


	16. choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coping strategies for nightmares and the future. Choices. Heroism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonical; takes place shortly after the events of [The Kind That's Not Undone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6495817/chapters/14869177) (the nightmare fic). Written as a birthday-present for [hitlikehammers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers), who wanted them to talk more about Sebastian's problems with not feeling good enough, as seen in that nightmare.
> 
> Minor warnings for: discussion of Seb's self-esteem struggles, discussions of therapy, the general controversial politics of this 'verse.

“Sebastian?”  
  
His submissive looks up, setting down the morning’s script. He’s at the last page; Chris had made certain of that. Light drops by from the window behind him just to ring him around with gold.  
  
“Um,” Chris says, losing his train of thought, hauling it back onto tracks. “Can I talk to you?”  
  
Sebastian’s eyes get wider: not quite distressed but dismayed. Sebastian’s instinctive reaction even now is to wonder what he’s done wrong, or at least not-right; they’re working on it. Some of that’s legitimate worry: Seb’s never been anyone’s submissive before and doesn’t have formal training, and they need this marriage to work, and, yeah, they should probably talk about the incident with the art-gallery owner the week before. Some of it, though, is what Chris wants to ask him now.  
  
“Of course.” Sebastian gets up in a lovely rush of limbs—not exactly graceful, but never tripping over, a baby cheetah learning to navigate endless legs—and sinks down at Chris’s feet on the floor-cushion, looking up. This hadn’t been exactly his intention—he’d moved to the sofa to be next to his sub—but he lets it go. Leans down instead and cups Sebastian’s cheek in one hand, thumb rubbing over smooth skin.  
  
“Chris,” Sebastian says, gazing up at him, not scared but apprehensive.   
  
“Okay, um…I was thinking.” Words. A start. “You know your—you told me about—that dream. Two nights ago.”  
  
Sebastian hesitates. Wary: not of him, but of the topic. At the time, upon first waking, sobbing in Chris’s arms, he’d pleaded: _I can’t, I can’t, if I talk about it it has to be real…_  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
They had discussed it, of course. The morning after, after leashes and collars and gentle reaffirmations that _this_ is real, this is love.  
  
“If you want me to leave it alone I will.” He strokes Sebastian’s hair. His submissive scoots closer and leans against his leg. “I promise.” He’ll keep that promise if Sebastian asks for that. Even if it kills him inside.  
  
He wants to help. He knows he can’t fix it by wanting—night terrors and dark figures don’t simply go away with a Dominant’s command—but he’s been turning ideas over at the back of his mind, or at least he has since getting past the initial frantic care.  
  
“I don’t mind,” Sebastian says, which from the faintest quiver in that musician’s voice is not strictly true. Chris nearly calls him out on it—one of their standing rules is that Seb doesn’t lie to him—but then that voice adds, wryly introspective, “I thought you might have questions. I thought you’d ask sooner, in fact. I’m more or less prepared.”  
  
“Sooner, huh?” He taps fingers on the top of Sebastian’s head. “What, you think I can’t be patient with you?—don’t answer that. But seriously, I thought of a couple things, and I want to ask you if you think any of this would help. If not, no worries, you can say no, but there are some things I can do that you can’t, and, um, y’know.” Given their respective legal statuses, that’s true. He’s not happy about it.  
  
In fact that’s the second point on his list, or related to it. He waits.  
  
Sebastian sighs, resignation tinted with affection. “I know. And thank you. What did you have in mind?”  
  
“Part of it’s about what they could do to you, legally, for lying during immigration, right? So let’s find out. I’ve got a lawyer, let’s actually schedule an appointment—today, I mean call today, to schedule that—and bring in your paperwork and our marriage license and our contract and everything, and then you’ll get an expert answer.” It’ll be a concrete verdict. He’s very sure that there’s not a problem—like they’d concluded previously, it would’ve come up much sooner, and they’re married now in any case—but this way Sebastian’ll _know_ and can fight dream-monsters with the knowledge.  
  
Sebastian nods slowly, visibly reaching the same conclusion. “Yes. All right, we can try, and it’ll be good to know in any case. What else?”  
  
“Second part…you said part of it was about feeling…” He bites his lip, hates the next few words, hates that Sebastian would think them. “Not good enough. Not being…worthy of…” He makes a face because this is ridiculous, but Sebastian believes the words, and so this is no longer ridiculous but abruptly sobering. “Not worthy of me.”  
  
Sebastian flinches. Looks away, down at the floor and the edge of his submissive’s cushion.  
  
“I can tell you,” Chris promises softly, not asking him to look up if he doesn’t want to, “that I don’t think that’s true. I can tell you I think you’re amazing. But I know that’s—that’s hard to hear. From someone who loves you.”  
  
Sebastian lets out a tiny huff of a laugh. He doesn’t glance up, but does tip his head to rest against Chris’s knee: appreciation of the understanding.   
  
“So I thought,” Chris goes on, tiptoeing through a potential minefield, “maybe if you—if you wanted, you could talk to someone not me? Unbiased? Like, a sort of professional?”  
  
“Like a therapist?”  
  
He can’t decipher that tone. “Um, sure. Something like that. Some kind of therapist, counselor, whatever. I had someone, not lately, but to help with some of the social anxiety shit, a while back. It was good. Would you ever think about it?”  
  
“I have,” Sebastian says, surprising him with both the complete frankness and the words themselves. He sits up again to catch Chris’s dumbfounded gaze in a safety-net of pale blue honesty. “Thought about it, that is, not seen anyone. Obviously I couldn’t without a Dominant’s approval after I was outed, and before that I couldn’t because I was scared I’d—well, I’d have to explain. Everything. The fact that I was technically a criminal. But I did consider the idea.”  
  
“…you did?”  
  
“I don’t in fact enjoy,” Sebastian says dryly, “having nightmares, Chris.”  
  
“No…guess you wouldn’t…was it that bad?”  
  
“I told you that I think, I hope, I can be someone worth loving.” Sebastian sighs. “Rationally I can think that. I do now, most of the time. It’s…I had a few bad years. The worst of them long ago. But I know it’s not healthy, some of the—some of my own coping mechanisms. Some of the things I think—I told a journalist once that I never worry about critiques of my music because I say worse about myself in my own head. I’m getting better—please believe that, don’t cry, oh, Chris, no—I _am_ working on it. With you. You love me. I know that you can and you do. And, yes, I would like help to continue getting better, if you’re offering.”  
  
“Of course,” Chris gets out, sniffling. He’s not ashamed of tearing up. He cries easy when emotions tug at heartstrings. And Sebastian loves him. He doesn’t ask why Sebastian didn’t ask for this sooner; he remembers the tentative early days of their marriage too. “Of course. I know you need my permission and my written authorization or whatever—we can figure out what forms we need—”  
  
“I believe we have to pick a therapist first.” Sebastian pokes him in the thigh, teasing. “They’ll tell us what they need you to authorize, and what, if anything, I can arrange without your presence.”  
  
“About that.” Chris reaches down to capture the playful hand; Sebastian offers it willingly to be claimed and cradled. “I kinda hate this. Your getting healthy, your access to this—hell, to any medical care—being in my hands, not yours. If I were someone else, if you’d married someone else…”  
  
Sebastian shivers in a way that indicates he’s thought about this as well. “But I did not. You’re here.”  
  
“Yeah, of course, but—”  
  
“But everyone else. The ones who aren’t so lucky.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Yes. Would you…be opposed to us becoming more visible?” Sebastian takes a deep breath, lets it out. Moves closer, kneeling between Chris’s legs, protected and hopeful and clearly having an idea. “I mean going to the equal rights groups. With this.”  
  
Chris feels his mouth drop open. Genuine blindsided shock. Not at the principle—he’s squarely in favor of the submissives’-rights movement, he’s quietly been a financial supporter for years—but at the source of the suggestion.  
  
Sebastian’s the one of them who most needs this marriage to be acceptable to society. Sebastian needs to _not_ rock political boats. For the sake of his own career and the money he pours into his parents’ medical bills.  
  
“It’s worth it,” Sebastian says quietly, reading his mind. “For the ones who aren’t us.”  
  
“You don’t just mean reaching out to doctors who might be sympathizers. For you.”  
  
“No, I don’t. That too, yes, I want someone who’ll treat me like a person and not your valuable property, but…”  
  
“But this is the hill you’d pick to make our flag-waving stand on?” He slides a hand to Sebastian’s throat, to the side: fingers curling loosely, support and a semblance of a collar. His submissive’s wearing the lightest one today, a necklace-version that pretty much just looks like jewelry, plus at-home yoga pants and one of Chris’s own t-shirts. Sebastian’s pulse flutters fast and brave. “You’re sure?”  
  
“It’s not fair,” Sebastian says. “None of it’s fair, but this—this is wrong. And it’s something that directly affects me, so I’m part of it. I have…credibility. If that’s the word. And if we go to them for help finding someone for me, then it’s only fair we give the cause something in turn. Your name, my name—we’re not unrecognizable. They can use us. I’ll be a symbol for them.”  
  
“You _are_ sure.”  
  
“ _Da_. Yes.” Sunlight falls across his face like a banner as he kneels between Chris’s legs. He’s a hero washed in gold, a story writing itself. “If you are. Only if you are.”  
  
“Yeah.” Chris clears his throat. He feels clumsy and rough and unready; he feels like this is right, it’s the right step forward, and he’s not going to let his beautiful hero take it alone. “Okay, then. Let’s go be symbols.”  
  
“We’ll be targets,” Sebastian points out carefully, as if making sure his Dominant comprehends this. “The media, everyone…scrutinizing our marriage, my need for a therapist, the legalities…it will get ugly, Chris.” His eyes say they know about ugly.   
  
He’s seen one revolution already, two countries ago, Chris thinks, and he’s offering this. God, I love him. I love him so much. “Can’t think of anyone I’d rather be a target with.”  
  
“Thank you, sir.”  
  
“And, hey, I’ve got a good lawyer.”  
  
“So you do.”  
  
“If you’re worried about not doing enough,” Chris says, holding him in place with knees and fingertips, “about not being good enough…this is a good thing. If we do this. I know that’s still not gonna fix it, but it’s something else to hold onto.”  
  
And Sebastian nods, taking this in.   
  
And then puts a hand on Chris’s cock, over sweatpants, which given their positions is conveniently in front of him.  
  
Chris feels his eyebrows shoot upward. And his cock, under the sweatpants.  
  
Sebastian says sweetly, “You did say I should find something to hold onto?” while relief at the decision and trepidation about the decision and sudden exhilaration and hope about the future dance together through the blue of his eyes.  
  
Chris, through the unexpected swell of laughter, manages, “Fuck yeah, come here, sub—” and gets his pants out of the way, and puts a hand on Sebastian’s head. Sebastian smiles and bends down, lips parting, sunshine on the nape of his neck as he moves.


	17. like honey dark and sweet (the divorcee!Sebastian au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alternate-universe version in which Sebastian had very hastily married someone else--and gotten hastily divorced, for good reason--before meeting Chris at a party. (And please do check the warnings!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously NOT canonical; rather, the alternate envisioning of one way their first encounter could've gone! Inspired by my anon on tumblr, who wrote three glorious messages including pretty much all the plot points you see here, from Seb's divorce to the attempted drugging and the rescue by Chris. I couldn't resist, after that!
> 
>  **Warnings for** : past abuse and non-con within previous marriage (Seb's ex is pretty awful), all off-screen but related by Seb to Chris; also attempted (unsuccessful because foiled by Evanses and Seb and quick thinking) drugging of Seb at the party.
> 
> Sebastian's going to have a fair amount of healing to do, but you know they get a happy ending. Of course they do.

“Oh my god,” Scott says, “Sebastian Stan.”  
  
Chris turns. A lot of other people turn too. Sebastian Stan: beautiful, brilliant, notorious. Scandalous, even. Shocking the world.  
  
Sebastian pauses under gala lights, glancing around the glittering ballroom. Knots of fascinated bodies, dressed in tuxedos and lavish gem-splashed skirts, stare right back and murmur. Sebastian’s wearing grey and blue, and has come in alone, and stands alone now, poised with shadows at his shoulders, looking back at the gossip.  
  
Sebastian’s beautiful because Sebastian Stan is permanently beautiful, long-legged and striking, pale eyes and soft dark hair and eagerness; Chris has thought so ever since first watching his interviews, his enthusiastic answers about film scores and classical piano albums and the Academy Award nomination the previous year. Sebastian’s brilliant, a known fact: composer, pianist, multilingual, dazzling audiences.  
  
Sebastian right now, Chris thinks, is nervous. Maybe most people can’t tell, not with that red-carpet practice and chin-up self-control. But Chris knows about social anxiety. Chris knows about panic attacks and sweating under his suit and the sensation of eyes prickling up and down his back. He’s been there. Not right now, he’s not the center of attention and no one cares about a goofy Boston-kid artist with an inappropriately loud laugh. But he knows.  
  
And Sebastian’s nervous.  
  
Self-control a little _too_ practiced. Jawline a little _too_ tense. Shoulders taut under that suit, which hugs him to perfection. Each step too careful.  
  
Sebastian’s not wearing a collar.  
  
Murmurs get louder. Chatter bouncing off walls. A photograph or two.  
  
This event’s a charity night. All sorts of hospital organizations, families of sick kids, care for elderly patients, generous gifts being handed over discreetly. It’s a chance for the coruscating elite to dress up and feel good about themselves while doing so; that doesn’t mean they’re not doing good, though, and both Chris and his brother come every year.  
  
Sebastian Stan had come to the previous charity night, half a year before. When he’d still been married.  
  
Sebastian hesitates, eyes sweeping the crowd. Looking for someone; looking around to find someone, not finding them.  
  
Chris thinks, for no reason at all, that those pale winter-blue eyes seem relieved, at that. At the absence.  
  
Scott nudges him. “You wanna say hi? He’s available now, y’know.”  
  
“Shut up,” Chris says automatically. Scott knows about his mild fanboy crush on the lovely composer; Scott knows as well as anyone that Chris has never kept a submissive for longer than a few months. They both know that Sebastian Stan’s controversial and rebellious.  
  
Sebastian doesn’t look terribly rebellious. Collarless, yes, and unescorted. Dark hair stylishly messy, one strand falling into his face. But he’s not flaunting his independence like a banner or proclaiming a second divorce on the spot or setting his old collar ablaze. The crowd seems a bit disappointed, grumbling about this lack of spectacle.  
  
A hand waves in Sebastian’s direction from near the bar. Sebastian looks grateful, and goes. Low speculation rises like steam from a tabloid-powered teakettle, floating across the room.  
  
Scott peers that way, shamelessly trying to see. “He’s talking to Will Malnati. Will has that talk show, you know, he had a friend of mine on once, the friend who got that part on _Days of Our Lives_ that I didn’t get, except I didn’t want it anyway and they killed off his character and I heard he only found out when they dropped him down an elevator shaft, so you should go say hi to Sebastian.”  
  
“What,” Chris asks bewilderedly, “are you even fucking _talking_ about.”  
  
“I wonder if he’s going to go on record on Will’s show. About the divorce. Finally.”  
  
“Your…soap opera friend?”  
  
“Sebastian Stan, you meatball. Will’s a good interviewer. And it looks like they’re talking…oh, wait, Will went off to say hi to someone else. Hmm.”  
  
“It’s his business. Not ours.”  
  
“That excuse works about as well as you trying to blame Mom’s ruined wallpaper on me when we were kids. It’s Sebastian Stan, that divorce is _everyone’s_ business, and he doesn’t talk about it. Drives me crazy.”  
  
“That thing with the wallpaper was your fault,” Chris reminds him, “and if he doesn’t want to say anything, that’s up to him.”  
  
Scott sighs melodramatically. Chris rolls eyes, but his brother has a point, at least the beginnings of one. The fact of Sebastian Stan’s divorce _is_ public, discussed and debated around dinner tables and setting historical precedent in the courts. Submissives’ right to divorce remains contentious, having only been ruled legal three years before; they can’t petition lightly or easily, and have to show incontrovertible evidence of abuse, threat to their lives, gross breaches of the Dominant/submissive contract they’d’ve signed together. Sebastian Stan hadn’t been the very first to petition, nor even the first to win his case, but he’s inarguably the most famous. The entire marriage’d barely lasted a month, and had sold billions of tabloid copies.  
  
No one knows exactly what went wrong. The court proceedings are closed. Sebastian’s ex-husband ex-Dominant’s living the party lifestyle in Monte Carlo these days, keeping a string of short-term contracts going, playing with pretty submissives. Sebastian Stan is here in New York without a collar.  
  
Sebastian would’ve had to convince a judge—possibly an old-fashioned judge, one disinclined toward sympathy—of genuine threat to his safety and well-being. Sebastian would’ve had to agree to seek out a new Dominant to watch over him, within a reasonable period of time to review suitors. Sebastian would’ve had to persuade his audience that the revolutionary nature of this act, his temporary independence, was truly his only alternative.  
  
Chris glances at him again, thinking these thoughts. Sebastian’s alone again by the bar, and as Chris watches he exhales and scrubs a hand through his hair and takes a rather large sip of his drink. Two moderately famous actors, both Dominants, a couple feet away, elbow each other; one of them makes a joke as Sebastian swallows, and they both laugh.  
  
Sebastian’s been granted six months to enter into at least a short-term contract with a new Dominant. He doesn’t have to get married a second time—that’s a separate social obligation—but he can’t remain an unclaimed submissive. He’s two weeks into that sixth month. He’s had precisely two offers—Chris will admit to following the case, it’s not a secret he’s a fan, he loves Sebastian’s music and admires Sebastian’s sweetness and sense of humor in film-industry interviews—but both had come from men who loudly proclaimed their desire to show this independent self-reliant sub what life with a real Dominant can be like. Sebastian—or rather his mother, his acting Family Head—has turned them both down.  
  
This is playing with dangerous consequences, of course.  
  
Chris takes a step that way. Toward the bar. Not really meaning to. Feet merely wandering that direction. Casual. Scott vanishes off, magician-like, to say a passionate hello to his current favorite suitor, a situation which Chris should probably be chaperoning, but fuck it. Scott’ll flirt with the bounds of propriety but not pull the house down around their ears and throw oil onto the wreck.  
  
He looks at Sebastian’s slim strong form, long musician’s fingers clutching the stem of a martini glass like a lifeline.  
  
Sebastian might not receive other offers. People talk and gossip but don’t necessarily want a submissive who’s proven to be anything but submissive when pursuing his own rights. People like scandal but don’t want it coming home with them at night.  
  
Sebastian _can’t_ legally remain independent. That’d violate the terms on which he’d been granted the divorce. He might end up paying debilitating fines, or even in prison.  
  
He’s a composer, a musician. Chris can’t imagine what that’d do to him. Can’t imagine being taken away from his own art, pencils and pens and watercolor and found-object boxes of leaves and twine and hand-sketched animation loops.  
  
He’s closer to the bar now. Letting gala eddies push him across the room.  
  
Suddenly a brick wall of shoulders interposes itself, leering at Sebastian. The brick wall’s wrapped poorly in a tuxedo and wearing a predatory grin. Vaguely recognizable as some producer’s son or nephew or some distant rich-kid relation. “I know you.”  
  
“Most people do, these days,” Sebastian agrees, quiet and self-possessed—Chris can barely hear him—and turns back to his drink.  
  
“But, see, this isn’t safe.” One meaty hand reaches out to poke Sebastian’s drink, pushing it across the bar. Sebastian takes a step back. “This, you, a sub without a Dominant around…anything could happen to you, y’know. Here on your own.”  
  
“ _Anything_ already has,” Sebastian retorts, “but thank you for the concern. I’m not actively looking for anyone else at the moment.” His body’s tense. Chris can’t tell from this distance but thinks his hands might be shaking.  
  
He’s too far away to intervene without running over there. His own hands’ve clenched into fists. He can’t stand by and do nothing. This isn’t _right_.  
  
“Of course you are.” One big paw waves at the room: the lifestyles of the rich and famous on display around them. “Two weeks, right? You must be desperate. But I could save you, sub. Take you home, treat you real nice. As long as you know your place.”  
  
“I refuse to sign a contract with anyone possessing an IQ smaller than his shoe size.” Sebastian _is_ shaking. Standing his ground, but visibly rattled. “And I _am_ allowed to report harassment, and you know me and my reputation. Don’t think I won’t.”  
  
The hulk looks at Sebastian’s face. At Sebastian’s conviction.  
  
Then laughs carelessly, fires off, “You’ll regret that, y’know,” and ambles away to huddle with cronies in a corner.  
  
Sebastian grabs his drink back, finishes it off. Leans on the bar, breathing deep. Eyes closed. No one comes near him. Whispers dart around the room like scurrying mice, bearing tales.  
  
Chris’s feet and concern get him all the way to the bar. At the corner. Not _quite_ right next to Sebastian; not far away either. He nods at the bartender, receives a beer, dark and strong and cold. Sebastian registers this movement with moderate interest, with the eyes of someone who likes watching people but is apprehensive about anyone choosing to be in proximity.  
  
“Hey,” Chris says companionably.  
  
Sebastian actually checks over his own shoulder, then looks back at Chris. “Hi?”  
  
“Nope, I meant you, not the invisible guy behind you. What’re you drinking?”  
  
Startled winter-lake attention flits to the martini glass as if having to check on this too, which Chris finds unreasonably adorable. Those eyes entrance him. Blue and grey and a hint of turquoise, cool and bright, pale as opals but not chilly at all. Remarkable. “It’s…a blueberry-lemon martini? With a blueberry in it? It came with two, but I ate one. Did you…want drink recommendations?”  
  
“Want another one? Drink for you, I mean, or just another blueberry, or whatever you want. We can totally get you, like, a glass full of blueberries.”  
  
“I could probably use another drink, under the circumstances. Why are you talking to me, again?” Sebastian instantly makes a face at himself. “That came out wrong. I only meant…do you not know who I am? Or…”  
  
“You’re Sebastian Stan,” Chris says, “and I’m Chris Evans, nice to meet you,” and holds out a hand.  
  
Sebastian takes it briefly, elegant fingers ever so slightly cold from touching glassware but strong when they curl around Chris’s and let go. “I will admit to being terribly confused.” His voice is beautiful too, low and soft and warm as ruffled brown velvet, accent like rich layers of molasses and spice: New York spilling across vowels and consonants, with the faintest hint of something wilder and magical and elusive underneath. “I know who you are as well, of course. I’ve been to your exhibitions. Here in New York, and Los Angeles…I love the textures, the way you empathize with nature…but I’m asking again why you’re here. With me, specifically.”  
  
“Someplace else I should be?” He can’t help beaming. His inner fanboy’s jumping up and down and running in circles. Sebastian Stan likes his art.  
  
He tries to keep the wordless glowing off his face. Sebastian doesn’t need to see that goofiness.  
  
“But…I…oh, never mind.” Sebastian raises eyebrows at him. “I’m going to assume you know what you’re doing. Since you _do_ know who I am.”  
  
“Yep.” He hadn’t expected sarcasm; he hadn’t expected the playfulness of that sarcasm, self-deprecating but not bitter. If he’s honest with himself, he’s unsure _what_ he’d expected—a defiant fuck-the-world attitude, or a weary brittleness in need of rescue, or a flag-waving submissives’-rights militancy—but Sebastian’s none of those.  
  
Sebastian surprises him.  
  
He likes that.  
  
He thinks fleetingly about another face, about another time and place. About another submissive making a joke— _we should just go ahead and make arrangements, it’d mean marrying my best friend, and, hey, you need SOMEONE takin’ care of you at home, Chris_ —and fearless seventeen-year-old boys and an off-roading accident and a muffled funeral held under weeping leaden skies and a new tattoo etched across his own ribs, a name that he’ll carry with him forever.  
  
He thinks that he does not know what to expect from Sebastian Stan, who notably has never undergone formal training, who kept his orientation a secret, who publicly filed for divorce within a month of his hasty arranged marriage, who’d only ever gotten married in the first place after a breaking-news dramatic outing at a leather-clad club.  
  
Sebastian’s clearly not a shy and retiring sort of submissive. Sebastian’s got a mouth, a wide happy mouth with a wry upward quirk like he’s constantly about to laugh. Sebastian’s certainly aware of his own situation but not harboring much rancor about it, or at least is willing to lightly tease Chris about coming over here. Those words could’ve had an edge, and hadn’t.  
  
He asks, “You like blueberries?”  
  
“I like every kind of berry, but those happen to be my favorite.” Sebastian deliberately picks one out of his new martini and eats it. Slowly. Happily. “Thank you. Not only for the drink; for the social acceptability. I see at least three speculative gazes; if you think I’m fit for polite company, other people might as well.” Those eyes sparkle, inviting him into the joke. “Of course I might not be. Wait until after this drink and find out.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Chris muses, propping an elbow on the bar, “you’re already suggesting gettin’ impolite, not sure you need the rest of the blueberries to go there, but I’m kinda curious about where you’d end up. And if they’re only interested in you because someone else is, then you don’t need ’em. They don’t deserve you.”  
  
Sebastian’s already started to reply, but stops, astonished. Party light catches in his eyelashes, his hair. Spills fascinated indigo and gold over the line of his lips. “They don’t…well. Thank you. Again. Should I demonstrate gratitude with more impolite suggestions, or would that satisfy your curiosity too soon?”  
  
“Oh,” Chris says, “oh, wow, you did _not_ just imply that I get satisfied too soon, I’m going to stop buying you drinks, just for that,” and Sebastian’s laughing and the blueberries’re laughing and Chris is laughing too.  
  
“Sorry,” Sebastian manages, though his eyes’re dancing. “I suppose I shouldn’t…I’ve never been good at proper protocol, I should be letting you direct the conversation…but sometimes I can’t resist.”  
  
“Don’t resist on my account.” He considers this, adds, “I didn’t think you ever even learned anything about protocol.”  
  
And Sebastian flinches. Small but perceptible. Hidden in a sip of blueberries and lemon vodka. “I didn’t. Not really. My—I tried to learn. I couldn’t get most of it right. I thought—I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m sorry, sir.”  
  
“I don’t!” Chris jumps in hastily. He doesn’t like that arrow-flash of pain in Sebastian’s eyes, that uncharacteristic newly assumed deference in Sebastian’s tone. He doesn’t—  
  
Well, he doesn’t _like_ it.  
  
“I don’t mind,” he says again, and Sebastian looks up, maybe a little happier, and Chris’s fingertips ache to reach out and slip under his chin and coax him closer, to cradle his face and stroke a thumbtip over his cheekbone and tell him that everything’s okay. He wants—  
  
God. He wants Sebastian Stan.  
  
“Oh god,” he says. Out loud, because he is a moron.  
  
“Sorry?” Sebastian now looks alarmed. “Chris—did I—I can go away, I’ll leave you alone, if I’ve upset you—if this is hurting your reputation, of course it is, I am, I should—”  
  
“No, don’t—it’s not you, I just—” The room’s spinning. His head’s spinning. He can picture himself with Sebastian. He wants Sebastian. In a way he hasn’t wanted anyone, hasn’t been able to picture himself standing beside someone, since—  
  
“I need to talk to my brother,” he finishes, well aware of how lamely this excuse comes out. “It’s, um, I just remembered, our mom’s birthday is, it’s important, it can’t wait, it’s like, time-sensitive, Scott can, um, I’ll be right back, I swear, okay?”  
  
Sebastian’s expressive eyebrows swoop together. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Fine, sorry, I’m just gonna—don’t go anywhere?”  
  
Sebastian looks into the depths of his new martini. “You don’t have to come back. You don’t even have to make up a reason to go. You’ve been more than kind already.” The martini offers no comforting reply.  
  
“Hey.” Chris puts out a hand, on impulse. Touches the closest forlorn fingers. “No. I mean it, I’ll come back, I just need to ask Scott about something real quick, but I promise I mean it, understand?”  
  
Sebastian blinks. Twice. He’s a confused kitten in the blue-violet uplighting of the bar, rumpled hair and long legs and an enchantingly baffled expression. “You want to come back.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Oh…then…yes. Is that…” A hesitation, an inhale. “Is that…an order? Stay here and wait for you?”  
  
Chris stares at him, feels the idea thump home, feels butterflies start tapdancing in his gut, his heart. “Um. I, um, I think so? Yeah. I mean, if you want it to be.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sebastian whispers. Honesty threads through that voice like glinting gold: long-buried treasure shyly catching light. “Chris, I can’t—you should know that I don’t know if—oh, fuck, I don’t know.”  
  
Chris grins. “Fuck, huh?”  
  
Sebastian mock-glares, recovering a measure of balance. “I know the word. Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”  
  
Yes, and he’s shaken by Sebastian’s kindness, caring about him and his reputation in the face of far worse problems. He’s amazed by his own reaction to that voice, those eyes, the way Sebastian looks at him and the way Chris’s own hands long to settle at the nape of that graceful neck…  
  
“Yeah,” he fumbles, and runs away.  
  
Thirty seconds later, Scott announces, “You’re a moron.”  
  
Chris slumps back against the ballroom wall, hiding in the corner. “I know.”  
  
“The most moronic moron ever to…moron. You like the guy. He likes you.”  
  
“I _know_.” He can see Sebastian from this corner. Alone with a mostly-empty martini-glass. Pale eyes considering the crowd, isolated in a sea of decadence. “What if I like him too much? What if I’m overreacting because I _do_ like him? What if he’s just playing with me, he has two weeks left to find someone, and he knows I like him now, and—”  
  
“Chris.” Scott’s hands land firm on his shoulders. “Breathe.”  
  
Chris gulps, and does.  
  
“One at a time,” Scott says. His bowtie’s lopsided and his sleeves’re shoved up. His eyes are the eyes of Chris’s little brother, familiar and yet not, all grown up somehow and remaining right here at Chris’s side. “Reverse order. That last one. You talked to him. Do you seriously think he’s here trying to seduce any random Dom into a new contract?”  
  
Chris turns over the encounter in memory. Sebastian’s skittishness at the first man’s aggressive approach. Sebastian’s unfeigned astonishment at Chris’s desire to speak to him. Sebastian’s offer to go away and leave Chris alone if their conversation might be harmful in any way.  
  
“No. He’s not…no, he isn’t. I’m pretty sure.” Sebastian needs to find _someone_ ; that’s a truth as well.  
  
“Okay,” Scott says, “so it was real. Your first two, though…can you like someone too much?”  
  
“Of course you fucking can, I don’t even know him—”  
  
“You specifically, I mean.” Scott’s gaze stays level. “I was there for you after—after Matt. I stayed up night after night making sure you ate and drank water and showered once in a while. I watched you carry all that grief and all that hurt and all that loss, and I watched you heal, and you know what I haven’t seen since? You excited about someone.”  
  
“I’ve—”  
  
“You’ve hooked up with people, you’ve done contracts with friends, you’ve had casual fun, I know, I know.” Brushing these objections aside. “You’ve never grabbed me in a ballroom and panicked over how much you might maybe possibly like a submissive. Until right now.”  
  
“Oh god,” Chris concedes, collapsing back against the wall. “What do I do?”  
  
“I don’t know about you, but I personally savor this historic moment, you begging me for advice.”  
  
“Scott…”  
  
Scott smirks, but his eyes’re warm. Excited for Chris. For this. “You know how to be a good suitor. Kinda rusty, sure, but everybody likes you, that’s part of your weird charm. You can put together a pretty damn appealing formal offer. You can _talk_ to the guy. Who, frankly, has to be sort of desperate at this point, so that’s gonna work in your favor.”  
  
“I don’t want to use that as leverage!”  
  
“As if that’d even work. I saw him shoot the man-ape down before you got there. He didn’t do that with you.”  
  
“No…he didn’t…that’s the other thing, though…he tried to warn me. His reputation, our reputation. I can’t make that choice for us.” The Evans family’s not the uppermost of the upper crust, but they are generally well-liked. Chris has his growing fame as an artist; Scott’s a successful actor; their sisters’re happily married. Scott isn’t married yet. It’ll make a difference. “Mom would—”  
  
“Mom would tell you to be happy. We’ll stand by you.”  
  
Chris looks at Sebastian across the room. Funny. Could’ve sworn the man-ape, to borrow Scott’s description, just now turned up again, winking at the bartender, vanishing once Sebastian collected a new martini. Maybe he’s seeing things.  
  
“You said he tried to warn you,” Scott says. “Sounds like he might be a good guy. If this is something that could make you happy, Chris, we’re cheering you on.”  
  
“Okay.” Chris stands up straighter. Tugs at his jacket. “Okay.”  
  
“You can do this.”  
  
“I can do this.”  
  
“Wait, hang on.” Scott reaches up. Ruffles Chris’s neatly combed hair. “Better. Now go.”  
  
Chris narrows eyes at him.  
  
“Trust me,” Scott says. “Go. Woo your man. Ask him if he can get me Meryl Streep’s autograph. I expect a reward for my hard work helping you.”  
  
“God, you’re a pain in the ass,” Chris says, meaning _thank you_ , meaning _I love you, little brother_ ; and heads off that way.  
  
He’s practicing his first speech the whole way across the ballroom— _I said I’d come back, I was wondering if we could talk, can I ask whether you’re turning down all suitors or only oafish idiots and if the latter is there someplace I could maybe send a formal offer if you say that’s okay?_ —but instantly realizes none of that now applies.  
  
Something’s very wrong.  
  
Sebastian’s leaning hard on the bar. Too hard. Off-balance under sickly blue-purple party lights.  
  
The brutish shoulders’re back. One hand grabs Sebastian’s left wrist. Sebastian doesn’t react in time, movements uncoordinated, underwater-slow.  
  
The man laughs. Gestures toward Sebastian’s half-finished drink. Sebastian glances that way too. His eyes get wider with horror, with comprehension.  
  
Chris runs. Shoving partygoers aside. Apologizing breathlessly. Heart hammering in his chest.  
  
He arrives just as Sebastian’s legs give way, coltish length folding up in ominous slow motion. The large man snickers and scoops him up tenderly and says something about silly submissives who can’t hold their alcohol and need to be taken care of. His friends nod in agreement. Chris sees red.  
  
Sebastian’s conscious but fuzzy, drugs swimming in his eyes. He spots Chris. His lips part.  
  
Chris Evans has a lot of muscle and an outraged sense of right and wrong. He knows how to throw a punch. Boston suburbs and rowdy Irish pub nights and gym-training days and his terror on Sebastian’s behalf all combine and land squarely on the big man’s nose.  
  
The man staggers. Drops Sebastian. Who stumbles, but has enough presence of mind to grab for Chris. Chris wraps an arm around him, draws him in close. “You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”  
  
“I’m not okay.” Sebastian’s face is white. “But yes, please. Get me out of here. Whatever you have to do.”  
  
Scott materializes at his back. “What the fuck? This isn’t what I told you to—wait, what happened, are you all right?”  
  
“Who’re you?” Sebastian asks, easily distracted at the moment. “Chris, I think I’m going to pass out…”  
  
“Stay awake. Stay with me. Come on, Sebastian, please—!”  
  
“Hi, I’m Scott, I’m his little brother, nice to meet you, well, y’know, not nice under the circumstances but—”  
  
“Scott, not now!”  
  
“Who the fuck’re you two?” says the man who just put drugs into Sebastian Stan’s drink.  
  
Chris looks at Sebastian, cradled in the circle of his left arm. Sebastian’s head falls against his shoulder; Chris shakes him, frightened, frantic. Sebastian with herculean effort opens eyes and murmurs, “Chris…”  
  
“Do you trust me?”  
  
Sebastian wordlessly raises eyebrows at him, makes a _what alternative do I have?_ face. Chris nods. Squares off against their antagonist. “He’s _mine_.”  
  
“Huh?” says the man.  
  
“Huh,” says Scott, sounding impressed.  
  
“I don’t see a collar or a bracelet or an id tag on him,” rumbles the man.  
  
Scott pokes Chris in the ribs. Surreptitiously passes over his own bracelet: a standard Evans family issue, one that designates their mom as Family Head. This is technically not legal because it’s got Scott’s name on it, but it’ll work.  
  
Chris says, voice steady with a hell of a lot of effort, “We’d just decided on terms, we were having a family discussion _about_ terms and a formal offer right before you fucking _spiked my submissive’s drink_ , and don’t think you won’t be hearing from our lawyers," and squeezes Sebastian’s wrist, hoping.  
  
Sebastian pulls himself together long enough to nod in corroboration of this story. Turns his hand enough to let Chris slip Scott’s bracelet on. Holds it up: on display.  
  
Cameras roll everywhere. Paparazzi and publicity. Capturing the moment.  
  
They could fight. Might have to.  
  
Chris holds his breath. Crosses fingers and toes and every other body part, mentally.  
  
The ballroom waits to see what’ll happen, whether the man’ll choose to respect the blatant last-minute façade or push events past the breaking point.  
  
The man glowers at him. Slowly, releases hands from fists. “He’s not fucking worth it. A submissive like that, he’ll never be any good anyway. You can have him. He’s not hurt, by the way, just gonna be pretty out of it for a while. Enjoy it.”  
  
Talk buzzes back to life like resurrected bumblebees as broad shoulders lumber away. Social media’ll be lighting up. Fireworks going off. Rustles and susurrations building to rumor and accepted fact.  
  
Sebastian’s eyes close. Suddenly he’s dead weight against Chris’s side.  
  
“No,” Chris pleads, “no, Seb, come on, stay with me—you’re okay, please—”  
  
“I’ll handle the media circus.” Scott’s mouth’s grim but determined. “And I’ll call Mom. You get him out of here.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Go.”  
  
The doorman calls a cab. The night air’s bracing and sharp, needles against bare skin. Sebastian wakes up briefly, enough to argue, “Not a hospital…”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“This isn’t legal.” Sebastian tries to focus on his wrist. Has difficulty doing so. “You…I can’t let you do this. And he said I’ll be fine…”  
  
“Yeah, except for how you’re passed out in my arms.” True, now. Sebastian’s out again. Breathing fine, but not reacting when Chris calls his name. He’s not wrong, though. They might be able to pull this off, but not if anyone gets a good look at Scott’s identification on Sebastian’s arm. “Okay, new plan.”  
  
He takes Sebastian back to his hotel, which sits only a few blocks away. Their cab-driver’s sympathetic, clucking maternally over Sebastian’s state, attempting to commiserate with Chris about tipsy submissives. Chris accepts this because it’s better than trying to explain.  
  
The lobby’s mostly deserted this late at night. The boy at the front desk says cheerfully, “Hey, you’re trending on twitter, oh shit, do you need help?” and gets the elevator for him. Chris holds Sebastian carefully, keeping him warm, and promises the kid a massive tip if they can be undisturbed for the rest of their stay.  
  
“Totally,” the kid says, unexpectedly solemn behind the patchy goatee and hipster glasses, “my sister’s a sub, and I’ve been reading about his case, y’know? I wouldn’t want that for my sister, y’know? So, like, anything you need, y’know?”  
  
Chris forces down uninvited welling-up of tears at this random kindness, and thanks him, and carries Sebastian into the room, and kicks the door shut.  
  
He puts Sebastian in bed. He peels off Sebastian’s suit jacket and tie and shoes so he’ll be more comfortable, but nothing else. He knows how he’d feel, waking up in a stranger’s hotel room. He says, “Just rest, okay? Sleep it off?” He knows Sebastian can’t hear him. He feels a little better for saying it anyway.  
  
He says, “I’ll be right here.”  
  
He says, “I won’t let anything—else—happen to you. I promise. I promise, okay? I’m here.”  
  
He tucks Sebastian into blankets in case he gets cold. Sebastian doesn’t wake, though quilt-fluff nestles reassuringly around him. He’ll be pretty out of it, the man had said. Meaning completely out of it, evidently. Vulnerable.  
  
He turns on two lights, one by the bed and the other by the chair. He doesn’t want Sebastian to wake up in the dark. He’s not planning to sleep.  
  
He checks his phone. Six messages from Scott and two from his mother. Collectively they seem to have the situation contained; the sensation’s out there, and they warn him to lie low and keep off social media for a while, but they can stay on top of it. Sebastian’s reputation might even work in their favor: people expect drama from him, so that’s less newsworthy. Scott and his mother both ask how Sebastian’s doing, how Chris himself is doing.  
  
Oddly enough, he’s doing fine. The anxiety that flattens him during interviews and exhibit introductions and awards ceremonies…  
  
…seems to be largely absent. He’s scared for Sebastian and he’s nervous about the fallout. But he’s not panicking over that fallout. He doesn’t have the urge to hyperventilate, thinking of possible consequences.  
  
He made a choice. He’s taking care of Sebastian.  
  
Who sighs in his sleep, and turns his head without waking, as if he knows that Chris is with him.  
  
He makes sure the curtains stay closed, muffling the outside world. This room’s small but elegant, a New York boutique. Chris likes places with character; this one’s an art-deco extravaganza, abstract bold designs patterning the walls. Green and blue and black; pops of coral-pink like swaying fronds, like sleeping under tropical seas. The bed’s modern and sleek and black-framed. Sebastian, lying asleep among snow-white sheets, resembles a fairy-story: dark hair, plush lips, immobile eyelashes resting over fair skin.  
  
Chris kicks off his own shoes, stretches, grabs pajama pants and the t-shirt he’s brought to sleep in. After a moment’s consideration, goes to change in the bathroom. He leaves the door open, a compromise. Sebastian won’t randomly awaken to the sight of him in boxers; he can peek around the corner and keep an eye on the bed.  
  
He throws clothing off and on as fast as he can, but he’s hurried for nothing. Sebastian doesn’t wake up. Chris grimaces, grabs his current book—a history of astronomy and astronomical beliefs—and drags the chair over to become a bedside guard-post. Flops into it, puts his feet up on the end of the bed—Sebastian won’t mind—and settles in.

About two hours into reading, around three in the morning, Sebastian stirs. Chris drops the book, bolts for water and painkillers—he has zero experience with roofies or knockout drugs, but he knows how a bad hangover feels—and sets both beside the bed. The water’s an unopened bottle from the fridge.  
  
Sebastian stirs again, restless. Mumbles something possibly not in English, eyelashes quivering.  
  
Chris hovers, heart in his throat, beating like hummingbird-wings.  
  
Sebastian goes limp again.  
  
Chris bites his lip. Leans down to brush fingers to that elegant bare throat, to check for a pulse, to make sure.  
  
Sebastian’s eyes snap open at the touch to his neck.  
  
And then he throws himself backward. Up against the headboard. Gasping in shock.  
  
Chris freezes.  
  
Sebastian’s trembling. Everywhere. Head to toe.  
  
And in that second Chris realizes exactly why Sebastian Stan petitioned for divorce. Written in the whiteness of that face. In rapid tiny breaths, panting, uneven.  
  
He lets his hand drop. Useless.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Sebastian—I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s not your fault.” Sebastian pulls both knees up, wraps arms around them. Blankets puddle at his toes. With sock-feet and messy hair, dressed in the remains of his suit, he’s simultaneously too young and too old, a survivor who’s limped wounded out of hell. “You’re not the one who—who hurt me.”  
  
“I’m still sorry.” He eases back gradually, sinking onto the corner of the bed, letting Sebastian see the movement. “I won’t touch you. I didn’t. Only your jacket and your shoes. And, um, your tie.”  
  
“I know.” Sebastian even half-smiles, valiant and shaken and trying hard. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m sorry too. It’s only instinct.”  
  
“Are you…god, I don’t even know what to ask. Are you okay?”  
  
“Most days.” Sebastian sighs. “Is that aspirin?”  
  
“Yeah, here—I mean, um, go ahead.” He makes no moves that direction. No causing more distress.  
  
Sebastian downs three aspirin and half the bottle of water. “What happened?”  
  
“Um…how much do you remember? I got you out—you asked me to—oh, shit, you’re still wearing Scott’s bracelet, I can take that if—that’s all really. He walked away. I brought you back here. You said no to a hospital.”  
  
“I remember that. Will you be in trouble for this? Acting on my behalf?”  
  
“Let’s go with not yet. How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Aside from the parade of elephants in my skull, not as apocalyptic as I’d expect.” Sebastian drinks more water. There’s one more in the mini-fridge; Chris will call for fifty more bottles if need be. “That’s because of you. Thank you.”  
  
“Oh, fuck, don’t,” Chris protests, anguished. “I should’ve—I told you I’d come back and I wasn’t there when he—when you needed me—”  
  
“You did come back.” Sebastian’s smile’s pained and tiny but real. “You promised me you would, and you did. I’m…not used to that. I _am_ sorry about just now. Reacting. I can’t—I know I was flirting with you at the party. I let myself pretend for a moment. I was going to tell you, before you had to go…if you’re seeking a submissive to play with, if that was why you came over, I’m sorry I can’t be what you want. I won’t hold you to it. What you said.”  
  
The echo of Chris’s _mine_ hangs in the silence between them. Scott’s bracelet perches uneasily on the table, waiting for the outcome.  
  
“I’m not making any decisions yet,” Chris says. “And neither’re you. You just got fucking drugged and—wait, you said you were going to tell me. You wanted to?” Sebastian _doesn’t_ talk about that divorce. Closed court proceedings and all that. Sealed records. The sky’s dark outside, though not truly black, not here in sleepless New York City. Morning’ll be sneaking in soon, but not yet.  
  
“I want to.” Sebastian taps fingers over plastic, thinking. “You deserve to know. Given the circumstances we’re now in.”  
  
“Only what you feel comfortable with,” Chris says, “only what you want to tell me. Please.”  
  
And Sebastian’s glance carries surprise, gratitude, relief; but also a sort of intrigued appreciation. “All right, then. You were right that I never had formal submissive training. My ex swore to me before he married me that it would never matter to him. It mattered.”  
  
“Fuck…”  
  
“I tried, you understand.” Sebastian’s voice sounds almost detached. Distant. Remembering. “I did try. But I’m naturally horribly clumsy—I trip over furniture, I walk into walls, doors, a refrigerator once—and if I’m working I get absentminded…he didn’t like that very much.”  
  
Chris hisses a few more unprintable words. Anger simmers down in his stomach, his heart, but it’s squashed under sheer horror. Coals starting to crackle, recovering from initial shock.  
  
“The day I stood in front of the judge I had two cracked ribs, one black eye, and the aftereffects of a lovely concussion. And a few…less visible injuries. I was very convincing as my own evidence.”  
  
“Christ.” He doesn’t know what else to say. What he can say. What words can do.  
  
He wants to ask for details. Was it the one time, or ongoing? For the whole bare month of their whirlwind marriage? If one time, was that when Sebastian left? _Did_ Sebastian do the leaving? He knows abuse cases are hardly ever so easy, so clear-cut. Tangles of thorny emotion and coping strategies and survival mechanisms. His mom serves as unofficial neighborhood counselor and safe-harbor, back home; she’s been that for years, and some of Chris’s earliest memories involve open doors and shelter given and no questions asked.  
  
“The answer to the question you’re not asking,” Sebastian says, making him jump, “is yes, that was when I left. He’d already broken my piano, the time before, and he told me I was lucky it wasn’t my fingers. He would…he was always aggressive about sex. Rougher than I—he told me I’d learn to like it when it hurt, I’d learn to be a good submissive and shut up and take it…but it hurt every time, and I was scared. Every time. I thought that was the way traditional contracts had to work, though. I didn’t know. That problem regarding my lack of training, you see.”  
  
“Sebastian,” Chris whispers. Heartbreak scorches through the world, this hotel room, draining color away.  
  
“He’d never outright beaten me before. That felt like…escalation. I knew that couldn’t be right. I’m clumsy but I was doing my best, and maybe I needed to be corrected, I don’t know, but not like—I didn’t deserve what he did. How far it went. And I’d read about successful divorce cases.”  
  
“How’d you get away?” He’s a thousand percent convinced that Sebastian hadn’t needed to be _corrected_. Sebastian never went through formal training, no, and might be right about being clumsy, but no submissive should end up with broken ribs for that.  
  
He’s unutterably thankful, deep down in the ferocious protective places of his heart—the places that want Sebastian to be, yes, his, his to care for and shield and keep safe—that Sebastian at least recognized as much. He’s worried about the implications of that needing correction comment, but thank god it’s not worse; I didn’t deserve what he did, Sebastian’d said. Decisively.  
  
Chris nearly weeps from the profound truth in that statement, but listens instead. That splendid voice is answering his question.  
  
“I ran.” With another smile, crooked. “He had to fly to Tokyo on business, three days after. He’d meant to take me with him, even so badly hurt; he enjoys showing off his property. The morning we were supposed to leave, I got sick—really sick, I mean, pure coincidence, I’d planned to fake it—and he left without me. He never dreamed I’d leave him, not when I’d needed to get married in the first place. So I got out of bed, I grabbed my notes for the piece I was working on and the few books I couldn’t bear to part with, and I ran.”  
  
“Where’d you go?”  
  
“Will’s.” Sebastian’s smile brightens with the memory of hope. “Will Malnati, you might’ve seen him checking on me, at the party? He’s a very good friend—a very old friend, college, Rutgers—and he’s active in the equal rights movement. By active I mean he shelters runaways, arranges contacts, helps people get in touch with other people. He took me in. He found me a doctor, and then a lawyer, and then a sympathetic judge. We had the paperwork done and the petition filed before my husband got back from Japan.”  
  
“And he just…let you go?” He’s on the edge of his seat. On tenterhooks at the side of his bed. Leaning forward.  
  
“Will’s lawyer threatened him with assault and battery charges, plus destruction of valuable personal property. The piano was mine; it was never part of our marriage settlement or our Dominant/submissive contract.”  
  
Submissives can’t own property like a house or land, and in most cases don’t control their own money, but exceptions exist for personal items, especially adornments and instruments, jewelry or family heirlooms. Sebastian’s piano would’ve been fully his.  
  
“So he signed?”  
  
“He laughed and told me no one would ever want me afterward, but he signed.” Sebastian stretches out a long leg, curls it up around himself like a panther-kitten, hugs his other leg. “So I’m free.”  
  
“Thank god,” Chris breathes. “I mean, fuck—thank god.”  
  
“I lost everything, but I knew I would. He kept the house and my savings, which of course had become his once I became his. My reputation…” Sebastian shrugs, tells his knee: “It was worth it.”  
  
Chris now has another sickening worry. “Do you have someplace—are you staying with Will, then?”  
  
Sebastian looks up, laughs. Despite everything. In the face of everything. Gently amused and bright and looking toward the future. “I’m not destitute and starving, Chris. I’d just finished scoring a Marvel film when everything…happened; the paycheck arrived the day after my divorce was finalized, so I kept it. And sales of my classical albums have, entertainingly enough, skyrocketed. Such celebrity. So, no, I’m not penniless. I’m presently paying exorbitant amounts in rent in order to occupy a one-bedroom shoebox here in the city. I like New York.”  
  
Chris sags with reprieve.  
  
“Of course,” Sebastian muses, “I’ve no clue what I’m going to do two weeks from now. I either find someone to marry, the complete society package, or at the very least to sign a contract with—though what Dominant would take me on I can’t even imagine—or I pay more money than I in fact have, which means I almost certainly end up detained wherever they send wayward bankrupt submissives…”  
  
“Marry me.”  
  
Sebastian’s mouth literally falls open.  
  
Chris would be insulted, but his brain’s busy having the same exact reaction to the words that’ve just emerged from his mouth. The world’s gone both hushed and roaring around his ears.  
  
“You’re joking,” Sebastian says faintly. “You’re joking, you…oh god, you’re not joking, are you…you meant that…”  
  
“Or don’t, y’know, marry me,” Chris babbles, “we can sign a short-term contract, that’s all you need, right, just something to show you’ve got a new Dominant, we could totally do that, you don’t have to actually _marry_ me, oh my god stop me talking, this is awful, I’m awful, I’m so sorry, fuck.”  
  
“Chris…” Sebastian shapes a couple of soundless words, gives up, tries again. “You—you can’t be…I can hardly stand to let anyone touch me, I don’t have any formal training, I’ll destroy your reputation, you’ve barely even met me, you can’t…”  
  
“I know what I’m getting into,” Chris says, a little dazed but absolutely sure of the words. “I’m in if you are.”  
  
“But I don’t understand.” Sebastian actually sits up, scooting closer to him across the bed. “What can you possibly get out of this?”  
  
“Do I need to get somethin’ out of it?”  
  
Sebastian’s mouth opens and closes a few times. He’s adorable when confused, though now’s not the time to observe as much. “…yes?”  
  
“Okay, listen.” Chris inches a hairsbreadth closer too. Sebastian’s too intent on his face to notice. “You know I want you. I’m not gonna lie to you. I promise you that right now. So, yeah, I want you.”  
  
“I know,” Sebastian whispers back. His eyes’re enormous, opal-shimmer drowning in amazed black. “I _want_ to want you. I want…I did want to, at the party…I can flirt with you. I can hope for more, someday. I just don’t know. If I ever can.”  
  
“I know. So this isn’t about that. No expectations, no strings. If you say not yet, that’s cool. If you say never, that’s cool too. You don’t owe me anything.”  
  
“But _why?”_  
  
This might, a piece of Chris’s brain grumbles, be easier if Sebastian _were_ a more properly trained submissive. The rest points out that then he wouldn’t be _Sebastian_. “Because you’re a good person, and this’s a fucked-up situation, and maybe I can help, at least by giving you some breathing room. Short-term contract, a couple months, we can renegotiate later or you can leave if you want, but for now. I won’t ask you for anything.” He tries for a smile. “You just have to put up with, um, living with me. For a while.”  
  
Sebastian breathes in, breathes out. Lets his gaze traverse the hotel room: the crumpled heap of Chris’s suit plopped on the floor, the blob of Chris’s amorphous faithful travel bag, his own neatly hung-up jacket and tidy shoes. The glass of water and the painkillers by the bed. His toes under the sheet. In Chris’s hotel bed, where he’s slept. Two lights on, glowing against the dark.  
  
“…you took care of me. Tonight.”  
  
“I want to help. If I can. I know you don’t have any good reason to believe me, but, um, I promise I’m not a crazy person?”  
  
This prompts a huff that’s practically a laugh, and Sebastian’s mouth does a kind of slow curving glorious upward tilt. “It’s possible I am, but I believe you. We could…we could really do this?”  
  
“Three months, six months, whatever you think would give you enough time to work out what you want.” Anything less than three would raise eyebrows; not unprecedented, but not standard. “We can write the contract together. So you know exactly what it says.” He’ll send his formal offer to Sebastian’s mother, as per custom, but he’s guessing Sebastian has a great deal of freedom to choose, given their rejection of those two other offers, given the way they’re discussing the subject now.  
  
The traditionally-raised part of his brain’s shocked in a kind of far-off unimportant way by this. The rest of him thoroughly understands and even approves. Sebastian’s mother loves her son. Sebastian’s been hurt once already. Sebastian _should_ be able to choose. To feel safe.  
  
“And you wouldn’t ask me to…” Sebastian hesitates. “I’d try if you wanted. For you.”  
  
Chris shakes his head. “Don’t. Not unless you want to, for you.”  
  
Sebastian lets out a ragged breath. Sets his empty water-bottle on the table. Presses hands into his eyes for a second. “I have such a fucking headache…I don’t know. I can’t think. Yes, I think I’m saying yes, but this is insane.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Chris offers mournfully. “I was trying to help. At the party, and now…I guess I’m a pretty fucking pathetic knight in shining armor, huh?”  
  
Sebastian drops the hands. Looks up, exhausted and bone-deep tired and brave. “Can I try something?”  
  
“Of course?”  
  
“Sit right there. Don’t move. Please.”  
  
“Um. Yeah?”  
  
He holds every muscle in place. Afraid to blink. To breathe, immobile on the side of the bed in this hotel room with ocean-tinted walls.  
  
Sebastian moves closer. Leans in: curious, apprehensive but determined.  
  
Chris’s whole body flushes hot at the proximity. He orders himself to not react, to sit on his hands. He can damn well take orders from his submissive if that’s what Sebastian needs to feel safe. If Sebastian’s going to try what Chris thinks he might be going to try—  
  
“For the first time in a long time,” Sebastian breathes, close enough that the words brush Chris’s skin and make him tingle, “when you made me laugh, when you told me to wait for you…I wanted to. I wanted you. I thought about kissing you, and I was scared—I _am_ scared—but I felt something that—that wasn’t being scared. So I want to find out.”  
  
Chris wants to answer, wants to say yes, wants to be the person Sebastian’s not afraid of. He’s not sure talking’s included in the no-moving rule, so he doesn’t speak up. But he quivers with it.  
  
Sebastian leans in and touches their lips together. Simple. Weightless. Light as a sunbeam, a snowflake, the kiss of an impossible rainbow in the night.  
  
When he pulls back they’re both breathing fast, gazing at each other. Chris doesn’t know what Sebastian’s seeing in his face, what might be making pale eyes shift and smile and change with soft wonder. But he hopes he can do it again.  
  
“So.” Sebastian touches his own lips, awed, processing. He’s sitting right next to Chris, one leg folded under him, one dangling to the floor. His hair’s in his eyes; he bats it away. “That…I think that’s a yes. That answer.”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris agrees, Chris vows, Chris worships. “Yeah, me too—I mean, oh my god yes. That—I did say anything you wanted, right, you don’t have to—but if you ever want to do that more, just doing that more, or anything—yes, yes, fuck yes.”  
  
“So,” Sebastian says again, taking a deep breath, letting it go: meeting Chris’s eyes, smile growing. “Yes, then. Let’s be completely insane and do this together. Tonight’s consequences, my reputation, your family, me—kissing you. Three months, short-term, but—with an option for…renegotiation? If we want to?”  
  
“If you want to leave you can,” Chris says. “You always can.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” Sebastian says. Around hotel-room curtain-cracks, the sky’s getting lighter. Tiptoeing toward dawn. “I meant…if we decide…I’m still saying if, we’ll find out…if we decide we both want to stay.”


	18. vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi,” Sebastian says, coming in. Summer follows him through the door like a puppy: heat and sunshine and bright sea-spray air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a birthday-present for Kells, who asked for Like Sugar fluff! *hearts*
> 
> Canonical; takes place after Sebastian's nightmare in [The Kind That's Not Undone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6495817) and after their discussion of thinking about buying an LA house [in the interview chapter of Extra Sugar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2598440/chapters/9582207).

“Hi,” Sebastian says, coming in. Summer follows him through the door like a puppy: heat and sunshine and bright sea-spray air. This is their new house, Los Angeles-based and laid-back, Spanish tile across the roof and foam-white walls and the curious whorls of seashells Sebastian picks up at the beach decorating odd places. “How’s the mural?”

“Rough sketches done.” True, albeit true as of yesterday afternoon. Chris gets up, stretches, comes over to swoop his husband into arms for a romance-novel kiss. Sebastian surrenders willingly, and tastes like mint and sunbeams and exertion, not unpleasant. He’d gone for a run, leaving the house to Chris for a supposed battle with the muses of mural design. “Missed you.”

“Did you? I didn’t think about you at all. Distracted by surfers.” Sebastian grins. He’s wearing Chris’s collar, of course: a sleek blue corded version that won’t get in the way when running. The embedded microchip has his Dominant’s information available. “One of them waved at me and then fell off his board.”

“I can see the attraction,” Chris notes dryly, “just let me know when you’re leaving me for a merman, would you?” and smacks his ass briefly but emphatically, enough of a spanking to make the point, to make pale blue eyes glint with appreciation. “How’d it go, though?”

“Fine.” Sebastian looks as if he’s considering a protest about being scooped up and plopped into Chris’s lap on the couch and his own sweat-damp hair, but in the end only kicks off shoes and puts his head on Chris’s shoulder. Chris tips his head to meet that darker one: where they should be, always. He’d only been half-kidding; his arms miss his submissive’s presence when they’re not together.

Sebastian goes on, thoughtfully, “I like Los Angeles. The art, the museums, the beach…I do like the beach. And the way everyone knows who we are, but most people can’t be bothered to care. Relaxed, out here. I don’t mean public events—” They’d been at a film premiere, not one of Sebastian’s but a friend’s, two nights before; microphones had insistently been waved their direction. “—but on the street, walking around…two little girls came up and asked me for help for a party-game scavenger hunt, this morning. Their mom—I assume she’s their mother; I suppose she might’ve been an older sister—recognized me, but she didn’t say anything, just thanks for directions to an ice-cream place. I like that.”

“I get that.” He skims fingers over the nape of his husband’s neck; Sebastian obligingly tilts his head more, baring his throat and the collar for fondling. “You want to stay longer?”

“I don’t know.” Sebastian sighs, shrugs—half a shrug, being cuddled—and shifts position, thinking. “We’ve been here, what, two weeks?—and you’re not done with this commission, of course. We said a month when we left New York.”

This house isn’t brand-new, but only a year in their possession. They’d been kicking the idea around for some time; they both love being outdoors and sunshine and water, and Sebastian’d fallen head over heels for the ocean the first time they’d rented a beachfront house on vacation. Instagram photos attest to this delight; Chris keeps one of his own favorites on his phone, to pull out and gaze at and adore.

They don’t spend enough time here, he thinks now. But they’d needed to this time. Sebastian loves New York and would never permanently leave the glittering bustle of the city; Chris’s family roots go deep in Boston. They can live three places, though; they’ve got enough love for all those adventures.

He’d accepted the commission for a new LGBTQA-friendly mural installation in downtown Los Angeles on short notice. He’d accepted because Sebastian’d come home from a meeting with a well-known film director, someone who’d previously hired him to score an upcoming project, pale and shaken and angry; and several hours after _that_ Chris had made headlines by punching a director in the face. Sebastian doesn’t deserve to be fired over his equal-rights advocacy; Sebastian even less deserves being called an ungrateful whore who, in that man’s words, is almost singlehandedly responsible for the crumbling of traditional society roles and responsibilities.

Running into the man at a five-star New York restaurant that evening had been sheer coincidence. Chris will testify to that in court. Chris will never admit that this coincidence had required several phone calls and a small bribe to arrange. The look on Sebastian’s face had been worth it, even if this had been followed by his submissive scolding him about public opinion and assault charges and not needing a caveman Dominant, thank you, Chris, I married _you_ , not a barbarian warrior—!

Chris, amused, had said, “Were you reading Robert Howard again?” and Sebastian had glared and said, “That’s hardly the point!” but had added, consideringly, “That did make a lovely sound, though, when he hit the floor…” and they’d ended up in bed, barbarian warrior muscles put to good use conquering a tempting minx of a captive submissive.

The man hadn’t pressed charges, mostly because Chris has a small army of lawyers and a good argument about defending his own submissive against injury. Emotional injury counts. That’s that. Done.

They’d gotten out of the city, though, for a while.

And Sebastian likes this house. California. Sparkling sun on cerulean waves. Yes.

He murmurs, his husband a welcome weight in his lap, “I have something for you.”

Sebastian’s eyes light up, kitten presented with string. “Can I have it now? Or…” With a wriggle: “In the shower?”

“That too. But somethin’ else. Get up for a sec.”

Sebastian makes a face at him, but moves obediently while Chris grabs the small eight-by-ten, the other project, the secret.

“I don’t know,” he says, unaccountably shy in the face of actually having come to it, holding it out, “if you’ll like it. I just…I’ve been working on this. On and off. Since you told me about it. I don’t know if you even want it. I couldn’t not do it, though, I’ll toss it out if you want, but—”

Sebastian mercifully cuts him off by simply taking the drawing from his hand, and staring at it.

“You hate it,” Chris says. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t’ve—not without your permission—I’m so sorry, I can—”

He’s done it in charcoal and the faintest wash of colors, experimental, dreamlike. Sebastian’s dream; and it shimmers upward from thick weighty paper, in slim pianist’s hands. Sebastian told him this story, this fairytale nightmare rescue. This castle, ringed with leafless brittle sepia trees, waiting at the end of a long dusty road for a hero to travel down. This smoky sky, this act of courage. The tower glimmers in grey.

In the forefront, not one but two small figures stand: not looking back, holding hands, small strong sketches of grey-black and triumph. One of them has Sebastian’s favorite blue scarf and that walking-stick, the way Seb described the scene to him; a thin tree-branch whisks companionably down to touch his arm, a friend as they look out toward the future.

Sebastian doesn’t make a sound.

“You said you tried to save me,” Chris babbles, “in that—in that dream, and I wanted—you did, you do, you came and got me, even in dreams you save me, so I sort of drew that, me with you, fuck, this is terrible, of course you don’t want to think about—”

Sebastian’s eyes’re wet. Waters spilling over the moat. Shining crystal.

“I’m so sorry,” Chris tries. “I’m a moron.”

Sebastian’s chin trembles, beloved tiny dimple quivering; and then he sets down the drawing with exquisite care, and turns and flings arms around Chris’s neck.

Chris holds him. Chris is afraid to talk. But Sebastian’s talking instead, words falling like the wild summer sunbeams, tumbling over themselves into snarls of gold: “I love it,” he’s saying, through tears, “I love it, I love you, when did you—I’m not, I’m not, that’s—you drew me like a hero and I’m—you made it something _beautiful_ , and I can’t—when did you _do_ this—”

“Mural design doesn’t take _that_ long.”

Sebastian breathes something highly blasphemous and awestruck in Romanian. Chris has heard that one before a time or two. “You’re my hero,” he says, rubbing his husband’s back. “No arguing, you’re just gonna have to accept that one, sorry.”

“Oh…making it an order, sir?” Sebastian sniffles a little, swipes away tears, smiles: brilliant as sapphires. “If I’m yours you’re mine. I’m keeping this on my desk. Getting it framed. You’re right there with me, look.”

“Always am,” Chris declares firmly, “always will be, can I take you off to bed and treat you, um, heroically? Epic deeds? Adoring worship? Many great labors of love? Help me out with this metaphor.”

And Sebastian, laughing through deep seas of emotion, hair standing up from his beachside run and from his husband’s petting, answers, “You can start the adoring worship by ripping off my clothes and tying me to the bed again, sir.”


	19. definitions of success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris films a commercial, and Sebastian approves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written VERY quickly, and is utterly the fault of [yensasha](http://yensasha.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr, plus [this Evanstan post](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/151297248544/stansons-dailychrisevans-chris-evans-on) (from which I am quoting Chris, near the end) and [this fabulous Chris Evans Chivas Regal commercial](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/151295710434/forchrisevans-win-the-right-way).
> 
> Definitely canonical, though at no real specific point in the timeline; somewhere in the second half, though, when they're comfortable with each other and being loved.

Sebastian watches the commercial play. Watches his Dominant in that suit, greeting guests, smiling, talking about success. Talking about the right way to achieve that success, and commanding attention: commanding every drop of attention, not least from his wide-eyed submissive.

Chris grins, pausing the video as it gets to the end. “What’d you think?”

Sebastian’d known his Dominant had been working on a commercial, of course. Chris had told him that much. Chris had joked about Chivas Regal and bringing home samples as a bonus. Sebastian’d assumed it’d been as some sort of art consultant, and had teased him about the choice of partner.

Chris hadn’t told him about _this_. 

He licks his lips. His heart’s fluttering against his ribs; he can feel desire like golden feathers skittering up and down his spine. He loves this man. He belongs to this man. He wants very very badly to belong to this man right now, this shining confident paradox, someone who can draw every eye in a room and nevertheless come home and ask somewhat worriedly whether his submissive’s liked the surprise.

He slides off the couch, closing the laptop with one hand. Gets on his knees. Right between Chris’s legs. Looking up. “Yes, please.”

Chris laughs, albeit with a hint of nerves. “That’s…either really good or really scary, to be honest. It made you want to get on your knees for me?”

“You didn’t _tell_ me you were becoming an actor,” Sebastian says. “Sir.”

“I was just supposed to help with set design, why they hired me, artistic vision and shit, but…the original actor dropped out last-minute, and, well, they knew who I was…” Most people do, these days. Equal rights movements, artistic awards, and all. “And they said I sounded genuine on camera. So…”

“Unfair, sir,” Sebastian points out. Chris’s hand’s landed on his head, ruffling his hair; he leans into the touch, arching his back. “Entirely unfair. Springing this on me.”

“So it’s not, like…” Chris pauses, hand caressing his face. Not like I scared you, he doesn’t say, not like you think I suddenly want to go all traditional Dominant and throw my role around; he doesn’t need to ask that question, or not aloud. Sebastian’s eyes answer silently, wholeheartedly, anyway.

“So it’s a turn-on,” Chris finishes instead. “Seeing me like that.”

“Oh fuck yes,” Sebastian says, “sir.” Prickling skin and shaky knees and instant shivery lightheaded arousal and every relevant giddy part. “Do you still have the suit?”

“I might.” Chris tugs at his hair, not hard. “Did you call me unfair? After I worked hard keeping this secret, you don’t know how hard that was, just to surprise you?”

“Um,” Sebastian says, falling willingly into the penitent role, “yes, sir, I’m sorry, I think maybe you need to spank me so I remember.”

Chris laughs—“Stay put, then!”—and runs off to their bedroom, and returns slightly out of breath and in a haphazardly flung-on expensive suit. He catches Sebastian looking, and slows: making motions deliberate, assertive, a performance. Buttoning the coat. Neatly. “You. Up.”

Sebastian, feeling breathless himself, wobbles upright. Chris grabs his sweatpants and yanks, baring his backside, then shoves him down over the couch-arm. Sebastian moans. Delicious, delicious and decadent and utterly filthy somehow, himself half-naked with pants around his ankles, while Chris stands behind him in that suit, trailing a hand along his spine…

He whimpers. Wriggles against the sofa.

“Mine,” Chris says. “My good little sub. Belonging to me.” The first spank snaps against his skin and snaps something loose inside, broken free and made whole. The sting’s not even that bad but he’s already on the verge of tears, vulnerable and shaky and overjoyed.

“So good.” Chris spanks him steadily, not relenting, quick firm blows. “You want this, don’t you, sub? Sometimes you just want to get on your knees for me, to let me take care of everything, your Dom, doing things my way, the way I want you, so you don’t have to think anymore…you don’t have to worry about anything, baby, because I’ll take care of you.”

The hits pause, then. Sebastian’s crying. Yes, yes, please; not all the time, and some dim shadowy practical part of his mind’s fretting over his own autonomy and his lack of experience being a proper sub and his desire for independence, but the larger part’s awash with bliss right here and now. This is right, this is good, he’s Chris’s, and Chris can keep him safe from worry and correct him when he needs a good spanking…Chris can make him feel good…

“I love you,” Chris whispers, hand resting on his ass. The weight feels hot and heavy; his entire backside feels as if it must be glowing, reddened and tender. Chris hadn’t held back, and has strong hands. “I love you, you’re so good, Sebastian, so good for me, and I want to—to make you happy. To take care of you. Whatever you need. This, or—or anything.”

“Please,” Sebastian breathes, drifting, alight with sensation, drunk on intensity, radiant. “More? Or…or whatever you want, Chris, please…”

“Three more,” Chris says, and gives them to him: swift succession, building, redoubling, and the last one lands squarely centered on his exposed hole, and he sobs, all thought disintegrating. Chris grabs him, pulls him close—back to front, so his freshly-spanked ass rubs against the elegant fabric of Chris’s suit—and gets one hand around his straining cock and the other loosely around his throat, over the thin braid of the at-home collar, and squeezes. Both. “Come for me. Right now.”

Sebastian shudders helplessly, jerks in his Dominant’s grip, and does, overwhelmed and spinning into dizzy fractured crystals of wonder. He comes with his cock held firm in Chris’s grip, with Chris’s hand at his throat, with Chris completely dressed at his back, holding him upright.

He’s fuzzy after, floating, heavy and golden as honey, as a slow fall of amber. Chris kisses him, cuddles him, handles clean-up. Sebastian, naked now and tucked under Chris’s suit-jacket, wakes up enough to scatter clumsy kisses over Chris’s chest and neck. Chris laughs, pets his hair. “You awake enough for one more? Thing I want to show you, I mean. Not sex. Not yet, anyway.”

“I think so, yes…” He yawns, but manages to focus when Chris reopens the laptop and puts on the second video, the rooftop interview edit in which Chris gets to answer actual questions. He means to say something more teasing, more playful, about them suiting each other, maybe, but.

But he can’t interrupt. Not once it starts.

In this one Chris is even more captivating. One on one. Earnest. Talking again about success, about trying to be a good person. Video Chris finishes by declaring that what resonates with him most, his definition of success in this world, his inspiration, comes “…when I meet a good person, someone who makes tough choices, ’cause it’s not easy to be good. It’s that.”

Sebastian looks up at real-life Chris. Chris is gazing at him. Stars and oceans and a giant magnificent heart in that gaze.

He swallows. “Was that…that was for me? You said…about being good…”

“Yeah,” Chris says, voice rough, eyes remaining on his, “of course it was, it was for you.”


	20. a story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god oh my god, you guys. 
> 
> Okay. So. Today’s story. It’s the MOST adorable. And they said they were okay with me writing about it, so I’m going to. Minus details, of course. But the important part is, I got to rescue Sebastian Stan and watch him get cuddled by his Dominant and then they THANKED ME.
> 
> Okay, so maybe rescue is overly dramatic. But I helped! Anyway, here’s the story…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonical! Takes place somewhere in the second half of the story arc, probably closer to the end, certainly after the I love yous and the comforting.
> 
> The safeword one should've been next, but it was being problematic, so you get this one first. One more outsider POV bit. :D
> 
> And yes, the username is a tiny Winter Soldier composer joke.

_posted by nothughjackman at 8:26pm, 13 December 2016._

Oh my god oh my god, you guys.

Okay. So. Today’s story. It’s the MOST adorable. And they said they were okay with me writing about it, so I’m going to. Minus details, of course. But the important part is, I got to rescue Sebastian Stan and watch him get cuddled by his Dominant and then they THANKED ME.

Okay, so maybe rescue is overly dramatic. But I helped! Anyway, here’s the story…

So most of you know I work for Marvel Studios, in a capacity I can’t really talk about but basically involves me being a liaison to whatever person or talent they need. Lately, as the film score recording gets underway for the next film project (can’t tell you! sorry!), I’ve been spending a lot of time with Mr Sebastian Stan, composer, pianist, absolute sweetheart, and also maybe the most (in)famous celebrity submissive around, if you’ve been living under a rock and missing the whole big scandal from a year or so back. Well, I guess that’s sort of blown over—more recent shocking celebrity gossip, etc—but you probably remember. Secret underground clubs, very public outing, leather and whips, all that.

But then he got married, and there’s never really been a hint of scandal about the Evans Family (until Sebastian and the equal rights stuff I guess but you all know my feelings on that already, it’s not a scandal if they’re on the right side of history), and they’re disgustingly in love and not running around to illegal kinky sex parties or whatever. Or if they are they aren’t sharing those stories.

Right, anyway. THIS STORY.

So we were in the recording studio, in London—not a full orchestra, but a good size—and it was me and Sebastian Stan and a new-hire baby assistant or two, you know, all of us listening and getting to hear the musicians play while the film ran silently in the background, testing timing, dramatic peaks and valleys, all that, with rain and London fog and damp boots and umbrellas and steaming mugs of tea coming by as the assistants wandered in and out. It was going great, but it’s a long day, making the most of studio time, and Sebastian Stan really wants everything to be good. Like, seriously, guys: the passion’s so sincere and so SWEET I CAN’T EVEN. He just really wants to do his best for Marvel, to give everything he’s got, and he was making edits to his score on the spot, asking for quieter percussion or slightly discordant bells or whatever, so intent, and it’s just damn inspiring.

Also his eyes are SO PRETTY. Especially when they light up and radiate enthusiasm at you.

But, see, the problem was, we were all getting caught up in that. And we sort of forgot to break for lunch. And we ordered food for the musicians but Seb stayed in the control booth and rewrote a section from near the end and I didn’t realize he hadn’t eaten anything. Which is totally on me, because that’s my job as a studio liaison, right? So he’d had a bunch of coffee, caffeine all day long, but no food, and it was like five pm.

So we’re hanging out in the control booth and Seb leaned over to talk into the microphone, but there were people in the way so he kind of had to get up, and he just kind of—

I mean he didn’t like faint or anything, but he really clearly got fuzzy. Pale, sort of unfocused, those eyes not seeing us or the equipment. And he put a hand on the chair, which of course was on wheels, so it slid, and it might’ve been funny except _holy shit Sebastian Stan’s about to pass out from hypoglycemia or whatever oh god_.

So I sort of grabbed his arm and got him to sit down, and he blinked at me for a sec, and then said “thank you,” which, what even, I was the one who should’ve been taking care of him. I wanted to plead for forgiveness or something. Instead I got one of the hovering assistants to run out for water and to beg an energy bar off the first violinist. And he started looking a little better, but, god. Him sitting there, looking up at me, wearing jeans and layers of sweater and scarf and a hoodie, fluffy hair, looking like he was about fifteen years old, needing to be taken care of…

He was wearing his collar. The pretty dark blue one we see in a lot of pictures, the one they use a lot for everyday functions, kinda simple, weatherproof for omnipresent London rain, but obviously expensive.

He said we didn’t need to call anyone, he was fine, he just needed a minute and that energy bar, and his Dominant was off exploring London art and discovering galleries and even meeting with some important people about some possible collaborations in the future and he didn’t want to interrupt. He said this very earnestly. He says Chris’s name like it makes him smile every time, by the way. Even when he’s dazed and fuzzy.

Sebastian Stan’s pretty blue everyday collar of course has a microchip with his Dom’s contact information. The upscale ones do, rather than physical tags, though some people still like the look of the physical ones.

I also have a very smart smart watch. It could read that contact information when I leaned in to rub Seb’s back. Amazing.

Look, I figured Chris Evans would want to know. I’d want to know. If it were me, if it were my sub—and god am I glad L. hasn’t ever been scared or hurt or in a situation when someone else’d need to read her collar—and yeah, I know the arguments, I know about the equal-rights groups and the crusade to not be tagged like pets—but the thing is, until some of those reforms pass, or even after they do and some people still choose their collars—it’s important. You hear those stories. Emergencies. Identification. Subs who DO need a Dominant’s guidance, when something goes bad in a short-term scene and they dissociate or crash or whatever and end up wandering out into the street or something. Anyway, it’s complicated and that’s not the point of today’s post.

The point is, I sort of sneakily texted Chris Evans—in case you don’t know, and some of our readers might not, the emergency number is a special number, it isn’t his usual personal one, which is private, obviously, but it gets routed there, which also lets him know that it’s not an everyday text or call—and within two minutes, I kid you not, he came running into the studio from wherever he’d been.

And oh my god Chris Evans in full-blown protective Dominant mode is A Sight.

Panty-dropping. Heart-melting. Pretty sure every submissive in the room was halfway to getting on the floor and purring. The beard, the plaid shirt, the muscles, the raindrops making panicked splashes in his hair and on his jeans, the desperate passion, the way he just wanted to scoop Sebastian up and care for him and cherish him. Like a Dom/sub daytime soap opera come to life, _Days of Surrender_ or _Treasures_ or one of those classics. And all that love and frantic care focused right in on his sweet wide-eyed sub, gazing up at him from the chair.

I had told him it wasn’t that bad but I don’t think he read that far in the text. He just kind of grabbed Sebastian’s hands, then moved a hand up to touch his face, to cup his cheek: like he needed to touch his sub everywhere, unable to stay still, searching. He was asking whether Seb was okay, what happened, how he was feeling, and his voice cracked, we all heard it, and god I wanted to cry.

Sebastian said, “I’m okay, sir, I promise,” and then actually got up, which made us all kind of squeak in protest, but Chris put arms around him and held him, both of them standing there in the recording booth, Seb’s nose kind of tucked into Chris’s neck, face hidden, Chris’s eyes wet.

Sebastian said something else after a second, quiet enough that I didn’t totally catch it but it sounded like some sort of gentle teasing about a fitness monitor and whether Chris wants him to go find it and wear it again, and Chris sniffled a little and grumbled “maybe we’ll buy you a new one for London” and petted his hair. Sebastian apologized, but that was gentle too, not a big self-blame spiral but an acknowledgement that this is one of their rules, I guess, that he take care of himself, and he _did_ technically not listen, and he was okay but he was also genuinely contrite. And Chris held onto him and even laughed, that kind of big rumbling Dominant rueful laugh, and said, “I’ll punish you for it later, after we’re _both_ fine, then,” and Sebastian put his head on Chris’s shoulder and smiled.

Chris said thank you to me. Sebastian said, “Ah, that was why,” and made a not-really-annoyed expression: for effect, because he totally likes being held by his Dom, you can see it. “You called him.”

“Texted,” I defended.

“I’m glad you did,” Chris Evans said. “I do want to know. And I was on the way over anyway. Would’ve stopped to bring coffee, but…yeah. No, thanks, we’re still workin’ on some things, this’s one, but I’d rather fuckin’ know, y’know, than find out later that it’s somethin’ even worse and he’s not okay.”

“Sorry, sir,” Sebastian said. “Again.”

“I know. You were working.” Chris touched his chin, nudged it up a fraction. “We’re good. You’re good. You’ll be good for me later. I love you, sub.”

“Always,” Sebastian said. “Always, Chris. Can I still have coffee?”

“Decaf. After I feed you. One energy bar does not count.”

“Yes, Chris.”

“Are you done for today? Or do you need to do more?”

“Um…” Sebastian thought about this for a second. “We’re still on schedule, but I’d love to at least get this section finished and properly synced up? For today? So we don’t have to interrupt it in the middle and then try to remember where we were, tomorrow.”

“How much longer?”

“Half an hour? Assuming the recording equipment behaves itself.”

“You can leave if you want,” I put in. “I can send you the file.”

Sebastian scrunched up that nose at me. “I’d rather be here…”

“Can we get food delivered?” Chris Evans asked. Every single personal assistant promptly volunteered. “Okay, then. Half an hour.”

Which is how they finished the recording session of the day: Marvel movie themes taking shape, the curls and strings and songs and crescendos of an orchestra, with Sebastian Stan sitting on Chris Evans’ lap, being cuddled and fed bites of chicken curry and papadums, Chris’s other arm securely around him.

They said I could make this blog post. I asked if I could mention it, and Chris asked why, and Sebastian said “Because we’re symbols?” and looked at me. Yeah, I said. Because it’s important. I won’t write anything you don’t want me to, you can even see a draft before I post it, it’s just I do sort of run this blog and it’s kind of Marvel geek stuff and submissives-rights stuff and pop culture and equality news, and this is…y’know, people’ll want to know.

They said sure.

And it IS important. Because they’re symbols, they stand for all of us—the freedom to choose, a marriage built on a willing contract, a story that turns celebrity and forced outing and adversity into hope and equality and love—but they’re also human, they’re just guys, Sebastian Stan gets caught up in work and forgets to eat and Chris Evans worries like an overprotective mother hen with a clumsiness-prone fluffy chick to take care of, and they’re still working things out day by day, like everybody.

Also they’re super-hot when they’re kissing.

And they were doing that like a foot from me.

They were doing that A LOT.

Like, a LOT a lot. I’m just saying. Wow.

And with that image forever in our thoughts, I’m going to end this particular post for today, because I’m feeling a serious need to go cuddle and hand-feed my own sub for a while. More Marvel movie-making behind-the-scenes to come! More adventures in shepherding Sebastian Stan and his Dominant around London after a day in the recording studio!

Stay tuned. Love you!


	21. safewords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris tries to be what he thinks Sebastian might've once wanted, safewords get employed for their intended purpose, and everything's okay in the end. Also, porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely canonical! Takes place shortly after the events of [All I Dream Of Lately (story nine)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7988581/chapters/18281788) and before the (at this moment) outlined but not yet written final main story.
> 
> This was originally intended to be MUCH shorter. You know, like a bonus scene. Ha. Ha. Ha. (I'm sorry.)
> 
> Contains: heavy BDSM, or at least attempts at such; a violet wand, a cross, flogging, restraints, safewords getting used, minor accidental injury, blindfolds, second tries, and a LOT of trust. Also Sebastian's awesome.

They’re walking back from the gym—Chris had gone for a jog instead, but had come over to meet Sebastian and walk him home, which they don’t do every time but often enough that people know he’s Seb’s Dominant—when he says it. He doesn’t exactly mean to. Just spills out. Falling from his mouth, with Seb’s hand in his. “Do you ever miss it?”   
  
Sebastian gives him an extraordinarily confused look. Seb gives him this look often, for various reasons ranging from discoveries about a lifelong Dominant/submissive contract to Chris’s own ability to insert foot into mouth, but this, Chris has to admit, is more obscure than usual.  
  
At this point Sebastian also trips over a crack in the sidewalk. Chris steadies him, heart pounding inexplicably fast. “Sorry, sorry, you okay? I didn’t mean to distract you.” His submissive is thoroughly capable of tripping over the sidewalk on his own, but inarticulate words likely aren’t helping. The sidewalk blushes in sunshine, shamefaced.   
  
“I have,” Sebastian observes, glancing up at him, “honestly no idea what you are talking about. Do I miss the gym we’ve just left? Or going to the gym without you? Either way, no.” The sunshine, continuing to be helpful, highlights his current collar. Splashes gold over blue-and-black workout-tough cord and the embedded chip containing his Dominant’s contact information.  
  
“No.” His heart cracks a little. Only a little, and he’s used to that by now. Sebastian Stan bewilders him and worries him and makes him die on the arrow-point of love over and over again. “I meant…I mean…what I mean is…you know, um, you know in the bar? When he said you used to go to underground clubs?”  
  
Sebastian’s face, always so expressive, so full of emotion, snaps shut. Closed. Hurt. “You mean when the idiot traditionalist called me a slut and suggested I get on my knees for a real Dominant?”  
  
That’s got bite; Sebastian’s capable of fighting back—as Chris absolutely knows—but it’s a sting born out of defensive self-protection. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t whip across raw nerve endings, since that’s more or less what he’s failing to ask, but he knows Seb loves him. “Not like that. I’m sorry.”  
  
He means that too. Sebastian hears as much, or sees it in his face, and sighs. Shoulders slumping. “I know. I know you didn’t, sir, I just…”  
  
“Hey.” He’s holding his submissive’s hand; he brings it to his lips and kisses it. Then circles around, gets in front of Seb on the sidewalk, gets down on one knee. In public. In full view of anyone willing to glance their way. “I told you I didn’t care. I don’t. Not like that. I love you. I’ll ask you to marry me again if you want. Right here. Right now. Please marry me, Sebastian Stan.”  
  
“Oh fuck me,” Sebastian says, and starts laughing: hurt not a hundred percent banished but overtaken by amusement. “Yes, sir, absolutely yes, wait, I’m overcome by your romantic proposal, I may swoon into your arms…” He even does a credible impression of an old-fashioned delicate-flower submissive. Hand to forehead and all. Chris adores him, head to toes, so much he must be fizzing with it, ready to pop and shout about how much he loves this man if anyone even mentions Sebastian’s name.  
  
He hops to feet. Collects his submissive as Seb gracefully mock-faints into his arms. Delivers a kiss to the corner of that laughing wide mouth. “God, I love you.” He does. He really, really does.  
  
“I know you do.” I know, says Sebastian’s expression. I love you, say those cool pale eyes, which light up like winter holidays when they land on Chris. “I know you didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m only…it’s a sore spot, I think. Tender. I didn’t realize how much. You really don’t mind, though? I know I’m scandalous in all sorts of ways.”  
  
“No, and that’s not what I’m asking. Totally fucking failing to ask. Sorry. Be as scandalous as you want, I’ll be right there with you, I won’t mind.” He does mind the past, but not in the way Seb’s taking his comment. He adores everything about his husband; he feels a knife-stab in his gut at the idea that Seb might not be as fulfilled and contented and delirious with joy as Chris himself is. “It’s just…a…thought. Never mind.”  
  
“No, now you have to tell me.” Sebastian links their fingers together, smiles. “Orders, sir.”  
  
“When we’re home,” Chris caves. “Not out in…I just want to hold your hand some more first, okay?”  
  
“Always okay,” Sebastian agrees, and swings their joined hands in time with steps, just for effect.  
  
  
Back at home, he tugs Seb into the shower—they’re both post-workout sweaty, and also any excuse for naked wet Sebastian is a good one—and crowds him up against the wall and kisses him, hands roaming. The pebbled tile floor warms up under steamy water and toes; every breath’s made of heat and apricot shampoo and the sweetness of Sebastian’s lips parting under his. Seb moans as Chris fondles his cock, hand big and heavy; Chris whispers, “Want it like this?” and his submissive breathes the affirmative, spreads long legs, melts under hot water and Chris’s touch. Sebastian’s so good, so genuinely willing and eager; Chris kisses his throat, closes his own eyes, feels the sting of unshed tears: they rise out of love, from a heart that’s aching with poignant emotion.  
  
He’s got fingers teasing Seb’s hole, his other hand working Seb’s cock, bodies pressed together under the waterfall; Sebastian’s moving against him, making soft sounds, needy and wordless, given over to Chris’s control of his body, Chris’s touches and rhythms. Chris’s cock throbs, caught between them; Seb gasps and arches his back, face blissful, lost in sensation; that sight undoes them both, as Chris groans and strokes his hand just so, fingernail catching the slit of his sub’s cockhead, the way Seb likes it, a hint of pain and a reminder of dominance. Seb comes instantly, cry captured and drunk by Chris’s lips descending, heat pulsing in that gripping hand. Chris comes too, caught in the wake of that vision.  
  
Water spills over them both, washing them clean.  
  
Sebastian’s playful but submissive after, glancing up at Chris, asking whether his Dominant wants him to remain naked, choosing to kneel and rest his head against Chris’s knee when they flop onto the couch and then turning to alternately kiss and nibble at that leg. Chris laughs, pets his hair, tucks both legs around him.  
  
He’d asked Seb to get dressed, at least sweatpants. Nagging shakiness. Uncertainty, even in the afterglow of ecstasy.  
  
Sebastian had listened, and had asked for his collar; black leather encircles his throat. The lump attacks Chris’s breathing all over again.  
  
“Chris?” His submissive regards him with uncanny insight for a second, then gets up off the floor. Plops down on the couch beside him; stretches, settles, gets his head into Chris’s lap for hair-petting. “Can I help?”  
  
Not _tell me what’s wrong_ or _didn’t we just have amazing sex, what’s up_ or _hey, you never answered me from earlier_. No, Sebastian wants to know how he can help. The evening folds in warm as the flush of dandelion wine around them, like his hand in Seb’s hair.  
  
“I was thinking,” he says eventually. His stomach rumbles, thinking about something else.  
  
“I can make something with that chicken for dinner, in a minute. Thinking requires energy.”  
  
“It so does. I can try to be your assistant if you want. Um…you—I asked you about the clubs. The places you used to go. Right?”  
  
Sebastian watches him, gazing up with his head in Chris’s lap. “Yes…”  
  
“Do you ever miss that? Not the underground secret part,” he clarifies hastily. “Not the whole fuckin’ awful scared parts. But…you sort of…married a Dom who doesn’t, y’know, have a ton of experience with the heavier…back when we did checklists you checked off, like, whips and suspension and—and—hot wax and shit, I don’t even know, and that’s it, right, I don’t know, and you do, and maybe you miss it and I want you to be happy and like flying and everything and I love you.”  
  
Sebastian stares at him.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Chris despairs.  
  
“…hot wax and shit,” Sebastian echoes. “Chris, we’re just going to not touch that phrasing, first of all, and second, _why_ do you think I don’t get to fly when you touch me?”  
  
“I don’t know!”  
  
“Because I absolutely do.” His husband sits up. Leans in so they’re nose to nose. Then kisses Chris’s nose.  
  
Chris blinks.  
  
“You,” Sebastian tells him, “make me feel incredible. Like nothing else, no one else, ever. Everything I thought I knew…it’s more, with you. Greater. Safer. Larger and brighter. I thought—have I not told you that? It’s true.”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris scrapes out, bravado totally failing to remain in place, “you might’ve said, yeah…thought so…”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“Love you, sub.” The moment fills up with peace, as Seb puts his head on Chris’s shoulder, as Chris’s hand lands at the nape of his neck.  
  
And then: “Did you want an honest answer, though?”  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“I mean about whether I miss it! The intensity.”  
  
“Were…you…not being…”  
  
“I hadn’t thought about it.” Truthful as sundown, as dusky confessions, murmured words and a smile into his collarbone. “I thought about it now. When you asked. Maybe a little. The—the sensations. Some of it I didn’t like, but some of it I’d try again, I’d explore again, I’d…explore again with you, without the edge of…keeping that secret. I might want to know.”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
“I don’t mean right this second.” Seb pokes him in the side, above his hip. Chris captures prodding fingers; his husband goes on, “I don’t even mean it’s a big deal, I’ll not be bothered if you say no, I don’t need it…but if you’re asking, then yes, I do remember those sharper edges, and yes, they could be good sometimes. Pure and clean and hot. But anyway don’t worry about it, not the way you were asking. I love _you_.”  
  
“I love you,” Chris says. “I love you, always.” He means every word. They come out half on autopilot, even as he folds arms around his submissive, as he breathes in and out and tastes Sebastian’s soft hair getting stuck on his beard. Eventually they’ll get up and make dinner, and Sebastian’ll give him instructions about how best to help turn chicken into human-palatable food, and he’ll listen, and they’ll laugh and tease each other and kiss each other over Star Trek best-captain debates and fall into bed naked and entwined. Eventually all of that’ll happen.  
  
Just not yet, not yet, not yet.  
  
  
He catches Seb’s hand on a quiet evening. It’s a luxurious night, a deep plush pool of a night, shades of bronze and plum and hazelnut cream swirling through rich brown liquid; Sebastian takes the last sip from his mug, wandering in from his office, moving to sit down beside Chris; and Chris loops fingers around his and then slides them up.  
  
Encircling his submissive’s wrist. Strength over elegant musician’s bones. Sebastian’s been working on a score for a comedy, gymnastics and flexibility; he’s having fun with it, though his skin’s chilly, sweater-sleeves pushed up in the process of composition.  
  
His next breath pauses, a skip, a shiver. Chris’s grip tightens. Their eyes meet.  
  
He doesn’t ask whether Sebastian’s finished for the evening. Wouldn’t’ve come out of the office otherwise.  
  
He doesn’t ask whether Sebastian wants him. He knows his submissive; he knows that smile.   
  
Crackles race down his spine. Nighttime fires, lighting up against the cold. A shift, a change in the air. He’s abruptly aware of his own Dominant status: status, and desires, in a way he’s not been much aware before. He knows now that Sebastian wants more sensation. More bitter with the sweet, more intense. Giving him permission, and opening doors to a kind of play that Chris hasn’t tested and hasn’t been sure about, but—  
  
But the images flare like dark starbursts behind his eyes: primal, possessive, wanting. Sebastian bound and gagged at his feet, gazing up at him with those fearless eyes. Sebastian tied to a cross, fair skin reddening under a lash. Sebastian arching up under hard spanks from a paddle, or writhing in bed with a cage on that pretty cock and Chris’s hand buried inside him. Marks and denial, evidence of this: that he is Chris’s, and Chris’s alone.  
  
These are not thoughts he’s accustomed to having. Part of him flinches even as he gets to his feet, takes the near-empty coffee-mug from his submissive’s suddenly lax hand, shoves it onto the table. “I bought us something.”  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian whispers. The coiled thrum in the night must be affecting him too; his voice already sounds langorous, hushed. “Anything, sir.”  
  
“Yes,” Chris says back. “Anything I want. With you. You’re mine, aren’t you? My husband. My sub.” No thoughts about his husband with other men—and women, Seb’d mentioned that too, and Chris’s gut twists at the thought that maybe Seb misses that as well; one more way he’s not enough—at darkened lushly-textured clubs, kneeling, moaning, begging.   
  
He’s sworn he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t. Can’t fault Seb for finding the only outlet available to him.  
  
He feels lonely and inadequate at the thought that those past nights’ve given Sebastian something—a refuge, a dazzling height—that he hasn’t.  
  
Complicated. Too big to get a handle on. Odd shapes and thought-corners and spikes in strange places. He wants this, too; that’s the hell of it. He wants to wrap Seb up in protective fluffy blankets forever and at the same time leave bite-marks and bruises across that lean well-muscled body. He wants to keep Sebastian safe from harm and turn himself into a stalwart shield, and he wants to ensure that Sebastian knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he belongs to Chris. Belongs _with_ , really: but here and now it’s _to_. Here and now under the tremble of the night’s wings, there’s nothing he won’t do for his husband, and that includes making damn sure that Seb can and does surrender every piece of himself when asked.  
  
They both want that.  
  
Sebastian, tugged up the stairs and into their bedroom by Chris’s grip on his wrist, breathes, “Yours, Chris. Yes—yes _please_.” His eyes shine, pale as moonlight over oceans, grey and blue and that curious hint of aquamarine that comes out when he wears green: no color Chris has ever managed to capture on paper. He’s starlight and opal and smoke in the night, messy dark hair ruffled up from absentminded fingers, toes dressed up in adorably incongruous green-and-blue striped socks under faded jeans. Chris orders, “Strip,” and he does.  
  
Standing together, they fit. They always have: near the same height, young and strong.   
  
Chris presses his body against Sebastian’s, clothed and deliberately powerful versus newfound nakedness, and cradles his husband’s face in both hands and kisses him. Slow.  
  
Sebastian shivers against him, and then stops shivering, head falling against Chris’s shoulder as Chris works his way down that slim throat. Sebastian loves sensation, loves being taken apart; his breathing slows too, deepening, melting into the claim that’s being laid. Belonging, Chris thinks. The word tastes like flushed skin and hazelnut coffee: hot enough to bite, to sting, but ultimately to soothe.  
  
He rests a hand on Sebastian’s unadorned neck. “No collar?”  
  
“Oh…” Seb blushes. Honest and transparent. “I was talking to my mother—video chat, you know, I wanted some input on the piano voice for this—and you know she sometimes…you know she knows what I am and what we are, but sometimes…it’s hard for her. To have to think about it.”  
  
Sebastian’s mother, while an unbelievably strong Family Head and brilliant pianist, is simply baseline, neither a Dominant nor a submissive; Sebastian had kept those desires secret for years, and they’d never had to confront the issues of pain and pleasure and surrender and control. When Chris had made his offer for Sebastian’s hand, she’d said _I don’t need to know the details_. She’d added, _don’t hurt him needlessly, and do make him happy_.  
  
He’d promised her that with his whole heart. “Yeah. I know. It’s fine, I’m not mad at you, but I want you wearing one right now, okay? For this?”  
  
Sebastian bows his head, and there’s truth in that gesture too. “Yes, Chris. Would you like me to—”  
  
“Nah, I’ll do it. You stay here.” On impulse he tacks on, “On the floor. Supplicant’s pose,” and Sebastian slides effortlessly to the rug, legs folded under him, arms stretched out, face down.  
  
Sebastian’s been practicing. Emotion nips at Chris’s heart with pointy teeth; he turns and crosses the room, hiding the puncture in his chest.  
  
Their bedroom’s large and comfortable, taking up most of the second floor of the renovated turn-of-the-century apartment. It’s got giant picture windows because Sebastian loves watching New York stories unfold, and glowing hardwood floors with scattered kneeling-cushions and shaggy rugs, and their enormous oversized bed with the very friendly bedposts that’re great for tying slim wrists to. It’s got stray paperbacks and journals for late-night tune-ideas and sketchbooks currently filled with studies of sleepy Sebastian; Chris’s pencil’s on the floor, he notices absently.  
  
Their bedroom also has the side area, the alcove with the slightly sunken easy-clean floor and pre-installed hooks and the toy chest and the sleek sturdy fucking machine he’d bought as a gift for Seb a couple months ago, waiting patiently for another use. And a few new purchases. He’s been shopping.  
  
He comes back with two items. Seb’s stayed dutifully face-down, not peeking; he’s a curlicue of loveliness in mellow bedroom-lamp gold, a music-note, a song. He does turn his head enough to let Chris catch a glimpse of curious eye: intrigued but not challenging the command.  
  
“Kneel up,” Chris says, and Sebastian does: poised on knees, hands behind his back, waiting. His eyes sparkle; less dreamy, more excited.  
  
The collar Chris fastens around his throat isn’t new—a wedding-present, in fact, from a distant family member advising Chris to start discipline early—but they don’t use it much. Stiffer than most. Taller. Thick and heavy. With room for a lock as well as a complicated fastener; he doesn’t lock it—can’t quite bring himself to—but does latch every other buckle and clasp. Sebastian could undo it if he had to, but it’d take a while plus a mirror and some patience. He stays perfectly immobile while Chris’s fingers move.  
  
Chris trails those fingers across his face, after. Over his cheek, across his lips. Sebastian’s eyelashes drift down, then up; his eyes change, going unfocused, darker.   
  
“I want you on the bed,” Chris tells him. “But I want you to carry something over there for me.”  
  
Sebastian gives him another of those familiar confused expressions. Not part of any training he’s belatedly dived into; Chris’s heart aches. That stab-wound again. “Here.”   
  
It looks like a glass dildo, and it mostly is; there’s a surprise lying in wait, and he’s holding the rest of it, but he’s sure Sebastian won’t guess, and he’s right. He brushes heavy cool glass over his submissive’s lips. “In your mouth.”  
  
Sebastian sighs, lips parting; he lets Chris push the weight into his mouth, and holds it there obediently. He’s very quiet, every motion imbued with a kind of solemn joy; Chris hasn’t seen him this far under in a very long time, that far-off place where rational thought slumbers under a honeyed blanket of pure gold. He crooks a finger. “Crawl.”  
  
Sebastian, on hands and knees for him, mouth stuffed full, moves to the side of the bed. Hesitates, looking at his Dominant, unsure.  
  
“You can get up,” Chris says. “Get on the bed.” After this, when Sebastian’s kneeling amid folded-down sheets and waiting, he adds, “You’re being so good, sub. My good boy,” and sees the ripple of pleasure across Seb’s entire body, a wave of bliss.  
  
He’ll be a harsher Dom if Seb wants that sometimes. But he’ll never not be himself. And that self will always want to temper harshness with praise and love.  
  
Anyway, Sebastian’s got a praise kink a mile wide. Opens up and glows at any hint that someone’s pleased with him, that someone wants him, that he’s made someone happy. Those pale eyes aren’t cold at all; they’re brimming with warmth, and someone telling him he’s done well, he’s good, he’s good enough, that’ll leave him floating on sunshine.  
  
Chris has learned that over these radiant months. Chris loves knowing that. Chris wants to praise Sebastian and bask in that reflected sunshine always.  
  
“Stay still,” he says, and slips slick glass free from that beloved happy mouth. Sebastian nods, evidently beyond speech. “You remember how to stop me, right? Colors?”  
  
Green, Sebastian’s lips say. Yes, Chris.  
  
“Louder. You’re mine, you want to listen, you answer when I ask you, sub. Tell me you remember how to stop this.”  
  
“Red.” Sebastian’s voice is very small, faraway, but unafraid. “Yellow. If I want you to slow down. But please don’t, sir.”  
  
“No, not yet. Well done.” He runs a finger along Sebastian’s chest, stomach, lower. His submissive’s cock’s rock-hard, standing upright, already leaking with excitement. Chris wraps the hand around it, squeezes lightly. Hears the whimper. “Mine. This. All of you.”  
  
“Yes—oh yes, Chris, please—I—I need—”  
  
“You need more?” Tighter, until Sebastian gasps; but the gasp becomes a moan, and more wetness dribbles out from the tip. “Intensity, you said. Brighter.” He grins. “Couldn’t resist.”  
  
And he turns, and busies himself getting everything plugged in and set up; when he turns back, Sebastian’s mouth falls open. “Chris—”  
  
“Ever played with a violet wand, sub?”  
  
“N-no…I’ve seen…but I never…” Sebastian’s mesmerized. Gaze fixed like a magnet on that humming electrified pleasure-toy. “You’ve never, either…you said, back when—when we did checklists…”  
  
“I went shopping.” And he’d wanted something handheld, something he could use; he’d wanted something he knew Sebastian hadn’t tried. He’d found those checklists too. “And you said you were mine. All mine, sub. To play with. However I want.” He steps closer. Sebastian’s breathing rapidly, but meets his eyes. “Anything, you said. If I want you to fuck me with that pretty cock, to get me off, you’ll do it. If I want to tie you up and leave you on your knees all day, you’ll do it. If I want to use this on you right now, and I tell you not to move, you’ll do that too.” His jeans, old and loose, feel uncomfortably tight. His body’s taut with desire, buzzing like that electricity in his veins. He’d planned to stay dressed, a reminder of the power exchange; every brush of fabric sets off small explosions of need.  
  
Sebastian whispers, “Yes.”  
  
“Yeah.” Chris touches his mouth again, presses two fingers over lips, and they part to let him in. Sebastian suckles at the fingers, softening, yielding, looking dazed and determined and innocent all at once, the kind of innocence that’s not virginal but truthful: unabashed emotion and desire, no shame or self-awareness left. “Of course you will. You’re so good for me. Always are, sub. Love you.”  
  
Sebastian moans around muffling penetration. Chris moves fingers, flicks the tiny adjustment knob. Reminds him, “Stay still, but you can make noise, and come if you need to, I’m giving you permission,” and begins.   
  
The point of a violet wand isn’t to touch, but to nearly touch; the current jumps to bare skin. This version’s among the most high-end and durable and also expensive, and can in fact be slipped inside his submissive, internal stimulation as well as external; but that’s asking too much for a first time. On the lowest setting it should be mostly a buzz, a kind of fizzing tickle; he runs it along Seb’s taut thigh, the more delicate inner flesh, as his submissive stays kneeling in place. Sebastian gasps, back arching, though his hands remain locked behind himself.  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Yes, Chris…” Sebastian sounds distracted: blurry, distant, enraptured. “More?”  
  
More. Increased power. And motion: up between Seb’s quivering legs, to vulnerable drawn-up balls and the stiff thick shaft of his cock; Chris holds it there at the tip, over the shining wet slit, and Sebastian cries out and twitches in place, mindless with need.  
  
“Still,” Chris commands, hand on his shoulder both gentle and firm, “but I want to see you come, sub, whenever you have to, just let it go…” and teases his balls with it this time, keeping the stimulation there, and further back, behind his balls now, and over his clenching hole, and back up between his legs, along his cock, not letting him anticipate and not letting him rest; and that’s one more flick to a higher setting, and a shock of splendid anguish and electricity—  
  
Sebastian screams, and comes, helpless against the force of his climax. Jets splash his stomach, his chest, and drip down as he kneels; he’s shaking, head falling back.  
  
Chris holds him upright with one arm, and keeps him close, and doesn’t stop. Pushes him through the overwhelming sensitivity, making him cry out and squirm and shudder; more, praising him constantly, talking him through it, as his poor overworked submissive collapses against him, blindly clinging, body no longer under his control but reacting and spurting again, weak spasms until he’s coming dry, thighs and stomach slick with himself.  
  
Chris has mercy on him after that, and takes the violet wand away and eases Seb to his back on the bed. Sebastian, naked and dazed and messy with his own release, reaches up for Chris like a child, instinctive and unconsciously sensual, making small pleading sounds without seeming to know why or what he needs. Chris kneels above him, presses his wrists to the mattress—Seb whimpers—and pauses to yank his own clothes off. Sebastian’s legs move easily, limp from ecstasy as Chris gathers them up, lifts them, fits himself between beloved thighs. He hasn’t bothered to grab more than a hasty palmful of lube; he doesn’t shove himself into his submissive’s lax and pliant body, only pulls until Seb’s legs’re up over his shoulders and he’s rubbing up against that hole, fucking Seb’s thighs, watching his cockhead appear from between them and pump against his sub’s spent half-hard length and all the mess.  
  
Sebastian whimpers again, oversensitive; it’s a tiny cry of complete capitulation, and he’s rocking himself up against Chris simultaneously, as if unable to help the movement. It’s that sight that sends Chris over the edge; he groans as white-hot pleasure rockets up from his core and spills across Seb’s body beneath him, adding his own release to the artwork already there.  
  
As the peak fades, he notices Sebastian’s crying: from overstimulation, he guesses, not pain, and he’s proven right when he gathers his husband close and pants, “Color…” and gets back a drowsy “Green, sir, yes…”  
  
“Good…”  
  
“Good…Chris…”  
  
“Love you.”  
  
“Love you, sir.” Sebastian relaxes even more, trusting and sated, a heavy contented weight with his nose in Chris’s neck. “Hold me…”  
  
“Thought I was.” He cuddles tighter. “Any time you want.”  
  
“Yours,” Sebastian says, half-awake. “Yes. I like this one…”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris whispers back, kissing him, tender and fiercely fond, “me too.”   
  
Sebastian likes this one. He’ll have to experiment more.

 

Two days after that, they’re ready for Sebastian’s second present.  
  
The playspace sizzles with anticipation: a box atop the toy chest, some blankets for aftercare, glittering velvet night outside. And that brand-new piece of furniture. That’s part of the present, but not all of it.   
  
Chris had planned this one. Put work into it. Scheduled installation while Seb’d been meeting Scott for coffee and chatting. Scott knew his job was to be a distraction while his big brother got certain things secured to the wall, and he’d done it well.  
  
Sebastian’s eyes had gotten very huge indeed, with absolute unadulterated excitement. “When did you—you didn’t say— _how_ did you do this?”  
  
“You like it?” He’d leaned a shoulder on the wall, grinning, watching his submissive gaze at the looming Saint Andrew’s cross. Expensive. Solid. Padded in important spots. Black and blue. Imposing. More, Seb’d said. Wanting more.  
  
Sebastian had turned, and flung arms around Chris’s neck. Chris had said, laughing, “That’s a yes, then?” and shoved his happily compliant submissive to both knees and enjoyed the appreciative affirmative.  
  
Looking at Sebastian now, he has to grin again. Remembering.  
  
Sebastian, facing the cross, shivers. Holds Chris’s hand for a second as Chris anchors that wrist in place too. Chris rubs his back after, rests a hand on the nape of his neck, soothes him.   
  
Sebastian’s already pretty far down, having been kept naked most of the evening, praised and petted and hand-fed, lying across Chris’s lap with silver clamps on his pretty nipples and a fat vibrating plug occupying his backside. He’s not been allowed to come, obeying Chris’s instructions, with a matching silver ring nestled around cock and balls too; he’s nearly nonverbal, murmuring sounds that aren’t words when Chris secures his wrist. He’s finally graceful in submission, unthinking, too distracted by bliss to tangle up long legs or walk into a door.  
  
Chris tells him that he’s being good. Chris tells him that he’s amazing. Incredible. Deserving of praise.  
  
Sebastian whimpers. Blushes. Pink-cheeked at the compliments. Chris kisses him for that: his husband will tease and flirt and make scandalous jokes all day long, but ends up bashful and flustered when given serious honest approval. That praise kink again. Just right for him, Chris Evans: a Dominant who’s a sappy indulgent romantic at heart, who’ll cherish and reassure his sub until the end of time.  
  
Just right for him. His other half. As if they’d been made to fit together.  
  
But. A chill for no visible reason brushes his spine. But.  
  
Sebastian does want more. Had said so, amused and cheerful: those sharper edges could be good, pure and clean and hot…  
  
He swallows. Gazes upon his husband, his submissive, spread-eagled and bound to the cross on their wall, dressed in clamps and cock-ring and collar. The night purrs at his back.  
  
He’s wearing only loose pajama pants, barefoot, but he’s not cold. Heart beating too fast. Blood thumping.  
  
“Sebastian,” he says, and his voice surprises him even though he’d meant it to come out that way: Dominant and authoritative. He’s trying hard.  
  
Sebastian rolls that head to look at him. Even that movement’s slow, somnambulant.   
  
“One more,” Chris explains. “One more present. You up for that, sub?”  
  
“Mmm,” Sebastian says, vague, which isn’t an answer. “ _Da_.”  
  
Which is a yes; and he’ll let that one slide, because he knows it is and Seb knows he knows. “Stay put, then. I’ll get your present.”  
  
Because Sebastian’s wonderful, that answering gaze manages a hint of sarcasm: where do you expect me to go, sir?  
  
Chris laughs. Picks up the remote. Vibrations intensify. Sebastian whines and moans and squirms entirely satisfactorily.  
  
He leaves his submissive like that while he opens the box. He holds the contents up, coming back. Lets huge winter-ocean eyes take a minute to focus.  
  
“Oh,” Sebastian breathes, more a groan than anything else. “Sir…”  
  
Lamplight caresses leather. Toys with each strand of the flogger. Gleams along coy tips and edges.  
  
He’s never done this before. But he’s practiced. Some, anyway. With a pillow. With his own leg. He knows, at least in theory, about where to strike. About not wrapping tips around his sub’s body. About different types and techniques.  
  
He’s opted for the kind that’ll sting more than thud. Sebastian’d mentioned sharpness.  
  
“Yeah?” He’s still holding it near his husband’s face. “This good?” And he for a fleeting heartbeat hopes the answer’ll be no. Not that he doesn’t want to try. Not that he doesn’t want to give Sebastian everything. He just—he just—  
  
He doesn’t feel quite ready. Or maybe not quite right. Or the time’s not right now. Something uneasy. Some stress-fractures under the emotional surface, like they’ve not discussed it enough, like he doesn’t know enough, or maybe it’s not that at all, maybe he’s overthinking and making Everests out of molehills and being a giant dumb meatball the way he always is when it’s important, getting lost in ridiculous worries and fears—  
  
Sebastian whispers, carried on a sigh, “Yes, sir.”  
  
Chris straightens shoulders. Stands up properly. Good stern posture. Yes. Okay. That’s a yes; that’s that.  
  
And Sebastian _wants_ this. Sebastian’s eyes had lit up at the sight. Sebastian, he knows, has done this before: has felt this singing racing siren-call in his bones.  
  
Chris Evans will forever try to be what Sebastian Stan wants.  
  
He strokes the flogger over Seb’s back, bared and ready. Sebastian’s breathing speeds up, but his face—what Chris can see—looks peaceful in the flood of passion: all control over the scene and his body relinquished by choice.  
  
He lifts his arm. Swings.  
  
Sebastian gasps, but the gasp turns into a liquid moan. His body jerks but softens after, melting into the cross and the impact. His lips remain parted.  
  
Lines burn across his back. Pink, not light as morning kisses, but dark.  
  
“Seb,” Chris whispers.  
  
“ _Da_.” His submissive sounds blurry, enraptured. “Yes, sir…”  
  
“More?”  
  
“More…”  
  
“Seb,” Chris attempts. Infusing force into his voice. Decisiveness. “Talk to me.”  
  
“More,” Sebastian manages. “Yes, please. Feeling it…”  
  
“Okay.” He takes a breath. Squares up again. Sebastian can’t see his face. Can’t see him biting his lip.  
  
He _can_ do this. He needs to do this. So many reasons. The obvious external ones: he needs to help put to rest any debate over his own fitness as a Dominant. Those comments’re out there, and building in the wake of the recent incident.  
  
He also needs to do this for himself, for them.  
  
Sebastian’d been lovely atop him, laughing exultantly, moving inside him, claiming him in turn. They’d both enjoyed that. They can do it again. Many times to come. As it were.  
  
But that’s not what Seb needs—not what they both need—or at least not right now. Sebastian wants Chris to dominate him, to take care of him, to take over and direct his responses and releases, to make him fly under severe but loving hands. Sebastian needs someone to be good for, someone to please; he’s finally embraced those desires in the open, signing that contract, kneeling at Chris’s feet.   
  
Chris’s heart performs an odd painful twist and shout inside his chest. He wants to give Sebastian _everything_.  
  
Another swing. The flogger licks across Sebastian’s tenderized back. The plug inside him twitches and vibrates, turned to low but persistently on; his clamped nipples must be rubbing against the cross, sore and throbbing. He sobs once. Chris wants to hold him; Chris wants to leave marks and kisses like a claim writ large, scrawled in pain and pleasure across that beloved submissive body. Sebastian’s his. His head whirls with it: primal, possessive, in awe.  
  
More, hit after hit, until Seb’s back burns like the sun and he’s sobbing freely, twisting futilely in his bonds. He’s not trying to get away, though; he arches up into the blows, and his cock’s clearly stiff as a board in its confining metal. His face looks dazed, thoughts scattered and farflung; what he asked for, Chris thinks. What he said: being taken out of his head, overwhelming physical sensation.   
  
A few more, cautiously lower, striping slim thighs and that pert backside. Seb wails and squirms and cries, but no words form. When Chris steps closer and rests a hand on his ass, feeling heat radiate from abused curves, his submissive sighs softly and goes limp against the cross, hands slack, head lolling. But he’s awake when Chris checks; he’s fallen into the deepest distant lapping waters of subspace, where nothing’s real except the next unfolding rose of sensation. That can be dangerous—submissives this far under might not register severe hurt, or might say yes to something that’s ordinarily a no—but it’s also kind of amazing, and Chris feels a bud of pride put out newfound shoots in his chest.  
  
He did this. He got Sebastian here: flying, blissful, tranquil.  
  
He slips two fingers into Seb’s mouth. Sebastian suckles at them trustingly, dreamily, drowsily. Chris could’ve given him anything—his cock, a toy, the handle of the flogger—and he’d’ve accepted it; that sight, that knowledge, makes Chris’s hand quiver. Responsibility: vast and awesome, and he’s so honored, and also aroused. His own cock’s painfully hard and unrelieved, less from the vivid visceral sight of whip-marks and more from the indescribably erotic understanding that Seb’s trusted him this much.   
  
He slips a hand to the vibrating plug. Slips it out a little, then back in. Wiggles it, plays with it, thrusts. Sebastian keens. His cock’s not only dripping but almost as wet as if he’s come, Chris observes, leaking copiously between his stomach and the support of the cross.   
  
This sight requires action, stirring in his blood, in his pants, in his heartbeat. He takes Seb’s cock in hand. Presses his thumb over that slick head. Squeezes poor restricted balls. Pumps the shaft, then scratches a thumbnail over the dripping slit: being unpredictable in his torment. Seb cries, but his cock dribbles more evidence of desire onto Chris’s fingers.  
  
“You like that.” He barely recognizes his own voice. Raw with desire, with the instinct of a Dominant confronted with a willing bound submissive. “You love it, don’t you? You did tell me. Everything you wanted, what you couldn't help wanting…being all mine, belonging to me, everything I want to do to you. You’d take anything, wouldn’t you? Anything, as long as I wanted it.”  
  
Sebastian moans. Sags against the cross, eyes closing, opening; mouth open too, loose with pleasure.   
  
“Look at you, sub.” He rubs at the tip of Seb’s cock again, knowing how close his submissive is, knowing the barest touch will feel like drowning in spice and sugar, ginger and molasses. Seb’s body shudders and twitches. More tears. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, baby? Knowing you’re mine, knowing your body’s just here for me to use how I want…sensation, you said. You want me to make you feel it. You need that, don’t you?”  
  
Sebastian moans again. Incoherent, though there’s a yes in there, and thank God, thank God, because he needs to hear it.   
  
Because he can feel his heart. Thumping against his ribs. Ravaged by the situation; trapped between the high of giving Seb exactly what he needs, reestablishing that belonging, and the terrifying feeling that he’s tapdancing on a high-wire with only the safety-net of long-ago orientation classes and quick recent research. He’s never played with anyone who wanted to push the sadistic and masochistic elements; all of his temporary contracts had been much more about headspace and caretaking, and he’s thinking that he’s not too sure about trying much more than this.  
  
But, again: this _is_ good. This is fine. Sebastian’s back and thighs and ass show welts and scorch-marks, and they’ll hurt, but some hurt is delicious; they both get off on visible marks, signs of Seb being his good boy. They have ever since the wedding-morning, when Sebastian’d admitted as much and Chris had let fingernails bite into freshly-spanked skin. He could pull out the fat vibrating plug and fuck Seb like this, malleable and whimpering and bound to the cross.  
  
Sebastian’s asked for more. Chris himself wants to do more, dammit. He wants to be just as good as any of those random Doms, those nameless people _his_ submissive’d once gone to in illicit underground clubs. The ones who’d successfully taken Seb out of himself and up to soaring heights. Back when Seb had been so scared of revealing himself.  
  
They got me to stop thinking, Sebastian’d said. Expression far-off: remembering. Remembering that first time. A first flight.  
  
Chris can do that for him. Chris wants to be good enough to obliterate all memories of his submissive belonging, even if for a single night, to someone not him.  
  
He gets back to work. Swinging. Harder.  
  
Sebastian’s shoulders and back turn pinker, and redder, and darker—scored like his own melodies, to the accompaniment of moans and cries and writhing nakedness and the vibrator’s endless hum. The world around them vanishes; nothing matters but this, a kind of pared-down single-minded rhythm, the beat of a metronome and the arc of leather and the crack and the wail. His. His. Sebastian’s his.  
  
Sebastian’s shuddering in place, lost to the world. His head’s fallen to the side; his hips move of their own volition, mindless. Chris doesn’t think he’s come but he might’ve: from being flogged at his Dominant’s hands, high on the alchemy of endorphins and submission.  
  
More. And more, and—and he’s not thinking, not exactly, it’s instinct, it’s all that he knows—giving this to his sub, his Seb, his Sebastian—  
  
One more crack. Leather collides with tenderized skin. Skin breaks and surrenders, overrun.  
  
Chris can’t process it at first. What’s he seeing? What’s appeared?  
  
Red, he thinks, that’s not right, the flogger’s black and Seb’s collar’s blue and there shouldn’t be red anywhere—  
  
And then he hears Sebastian’s sudden shattered gasp, not pleasure this time but true pain—  
  
“Red.” No sound. No. _Barely_ a sound. A croak of safeword. Of stop now. Himself, not his submissive. Flogger dropping from numb hand. He doesn’t notice it hitting the floor. “Red—Seb—”  
  
Sebastian says nothing. Maybe can’t. Unconscious? Wounded? In shock? Because Chris has—has—  
  
His hands are cold. Useless blocks of ice. The ice-blocks fumble and fail and get his submissive somehow down from the cross and stripped of plug and cock-ring and clamps and collar—no, not collar, that has to be a mutual decision—Seb’ll fall into a spiral if he thinks Chris is angry with him, doesn’t want him—  
  
Sebastian’s awake but limp in his arms. Long limbs sprawl; Seb’s head falls back. Chris doesn’t remember making it to the bed. To their mattress. Cradling his husband.  
  
He blinks and he’s frozen, he’s trapped beside the bed and that ice is everywhere, paralyzing—Sebastian needs him but he hurt Sebastian—who didn’t stop him—  
  
He hurt Sebastian. He did this—he made Sebastian bleed—  
  
His sweet submissive, who’d opened himself up, yielded to Chris, trusted Chris—oh God—he _hurt Sebastian—_  
  
He can’t think about it. He can’t think. Spots across his vision. Ringing in his ears. Rushing backwards: falling out of that narrow tunnel, that place where nothing’d existed but himself and the snap-landing of leather tails and his submissive’s sounds of wordless ecstasy—but he’s seeing red, he’s hearing red, scarlet scalding his eyes and dripping down over the world—he can’t breathe—  
  
“Chris.” Sebastian’s lying on his stomach on the bed. Their bed. No. Sebastian’s up on elbows. Reaching out to him. “Chris. Look at me.”  
  
He can’t. He can’t, he sees the red, the scar of it—  
  
“No.” Sebastian actually pushes himself up. “Sit down. With me. Chris. Please.”  
  
Sebastian sounds scared. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. His voice blurts, “Don’t get up—you shouldn’t—” but his submissive’s got a hand on his elbow, guiding him to sink to the bed. Sebastian lies back down. Hands holding his. Gazing up. Anchors of grey-blue, of tangible reality.  
  
“Chris. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”  
  
“I did, I did—”  
  
“No,” Sebastian says again. “Chris, I need you to listen. You did nothing wrong. I swear to you.”  
  
“But I _hurt_ —”  
  
“We both wanted to try this.” Fierce and warm, certain even as he’s bleeding, as he’s holding Chris’s hands. “It was good. Up until the very last second, when it hurt, it was good. I gave you no reason to stop. No safewords. Not even a pause. You did nothing we hadn’t agreed on, I said yes to this, it’s only an accident, you did _nothing_ wrong, Chris. Please hear me.”  
  
“But—” Struggling to do exactly that. To hear. To understand. “You didn’t—you didn’t stop me, what if—”  
  
“I would’ve.” Sebastian’s mouth quirks: valiant with pain, with love. “I’d’ve said at least yellow, I can’t tell how bad it is, I can’t—I couldn’t breathe for a second. Shock. By the time I could you’d already called red. I’d’ve stopped you, believe me, and that doesn’t make it your fault.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Chris chokes out. His thumbs’ve been unconsciously rubbing over Sebastian’s hands, he notices: self-soothing. Self-loathing closes his throat. “I don’t know.”  
  
“You’re good,” Sebastian says, “we’re good, Chris, we are. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and I’m not. Hurt.”  
  
“You’re—”  
  
Sebastian sighs. “English…let me rephrase. I’m not hurt _because_ of you. I’m hurting, yes. And I need you. I need you to listen to me, Chris, I need you to focus on me, on what I’m asking, okay? I’m hurting, it’s not your fault, but I was pretty far under and we got yanked out of the scene and I’m feeling a bit dizzy and I do need your help, please. I need you to take care of me, sir. Focus on me, only on me, look at me. Take care of me. You can do that. You’ve always done that for me.”  
  
Chris’s chest hurts. No air; when he gulps some in he’s momentarily lightheaded. He looks at Sebastian. At Sebastian’s steady voice, hands, eyes when they hold his.   
  
He’s Sebastian’s Dominant. He takes care of his submissive. He can take care of Sebastian. Sebastian is asking. Sebastian wants his care.  
  
“I love you.” Sebastian laces their fingers together. His skin’s white except for the line of Chris’s failure across his back, but he feels sure. He sounds sure. He does not admit doubt. He’s Chris’s fortress. “I love you and I trust you. Right now I trust you to take care of me. Please, Chris.”  
  
Chris, lost in heroism and command and love, nods. The panic’s not gone but retreating, faced with the superior power of Sebastian’s trust.   
  
He stumbles through, “You need to get warm.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“You need…water. Chocolate. Sugar.” He moves a hand, touches Sebastian’s cheek. Warmth. Not ice. Alive. “Feeling safe.”  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian whispers back. “Sir.”  
  
“And you need me to…to take care of that.” His voice lurches when he glances at the whip-line across his submissive’s back. He’s not ashamed to be unsteady. Seb’ll catch him. Because—because he’ll do the same for Sebastian. He’ll try.   
  
He makes himself look. Makes himself face it. “Lie still.” Sebastian does, face-down on the bed, head pillowed on arms, calmly watching. Chris tucks blankets around him, around his sides, over his legs and ass, also pink and stinging but that’s secondary. Heat. Protection. Comfort and softness. Sebastian’s body chemistry’s going to be six hundred kinds of fucked-up, subspace and endorphins colliding with unexpected real physical pain and bewildered hurt and the aftermath of an unfulfilled scene and the emotional demands of reassuring a panicked and useless Dominant.  
  
He shuts his eyes. No. No falling down that ugly whirlpool. His husband needs him. Trusts him to help.  
  
Emotional band-aid tattered but holding, reinforced by honest grey-blue eyes and quiet words of love, he rests a palm on Sebastian’s lower back. No flinch, so that’s good. For a value of good. “Tell me if it hurts. Anything. Even if you think it might maybe hurt in the next five seconds.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
It’s a thin line, that red. Not wide or deep. Already clotting. Could’ve been worse. He makes himself consider it rationally, analytically, even as he hates the sight and himself. He’s Sebastian’s Dominant. He needs to know precisely what he’s done. Even if Sebastian’s right and it’s not his fault—and he’s not ready to concede that one yet, though he is clinging desperately to those words, deep inside his heart—he needs to be responsible.   
  
Care, he remembers, walking fingers upward, over smooth expanses of linen-pale muscle and skin. Sebastian asked him for that. Asked _him_. Even now. “Anything? Tell me.” His fingers get closer to the real injury. That vicious score of red, that discordant jarring note across moonlit symphonies.  
  
“Not yet…ah.” A hiss of breath: air between teeth. “Wait.”  
  
Sebastian’s voice is uneven. Chris hears the tremble and wants to cry. There’s that crash descending, and his submissive’s being so brave. He has to take a second before speaking. “Okay. It’s—it’s not too bad. Just the one…and right around it, I think, if that hurts…” And too hot. Bruised. Soreness near the split.   
  
“More almost hurt, I think.” Sebastian’s panting slightly. “You said…you said to stop you before…it’s only sensitive. Like a good spanking. Right there, I mean, where you were…touching…Chris?”  
  
“Yeah?” He’s on the floor now, kneeling so that they can be eye to eye. “Baby, what’s wrong? What is it? Talk to me.”  
  
“I feel dizzy,” Sebastian admits. “I can’t quite breathe…enough…my chest…”  
  
Chris lunges for the bed. Props him up. Lifts his chin. “Seb? Seb! Come on, look at me, you can—” Orders. Orders might help. Solid lifelines in a maelstrom. “Sebastian. Sub. Look at me. Breathe in. Keep looking at me, that’s good, you’re so good, let it out, now again, you can do it, yeah? You’re great, you’re doing great—”  
  
Sebastian tries to say something, shakes his head, starts crying. He’s breathing, though, and he latches on to Chris with impressive strength, so it’s not anger or resentment; it’s that aftermath kicking in. His trembling’s worse, and Chris supports him helplessly and tries to keep him warm, tries to talk to him, tries to be a signpost in the hurricane. Sebastian’s back must be hurting and needs a bandage, but he can’t move while he’s cradling a shell-shocked submissive. He grabs blankets. Blood smears one as it rubs across his husband’s back. He doesn’t care and Seb doesn’t react; he doesn’t care _because_ Seb doesn’t react and he’s more terrified noticing that.   
  
“Sebastian,” he pleads. “Seb. Sub. Baby, come on, come up, I need you to focus, sub, you gotta answer me,” and Sebastian keeps crying and Chris holds onto him in the circle of their bedroom lights and the vast whirlpool of their bed, clinging just as badly.  
  
Sebastian’s sobs taper off after a few minutes that feel like a lifetime. He’s not asleep but he’s not exactly awake: lost in something that’s like subspace but not, a kind of unfocused dissociation. He reacts when Chris touches his cheek, lifts his chin; but he doesn’t talk, only searches his Dominant’s face with big lost eyes.  
  
Chris takes a deep breath. Grabs onto sanity with fingertips. Sebastian asked him to handle this. Take care of me: those words. I trust you. I need you.  
  
He focuses on Sebastian.   
  
The rest of the world—the future, their playspace, his own anguish—falls away. Important later. Not now.  
  
He gets Sebastian to lie down again. He runs to the bathroom and grabs their closest first-aid kit—they have three, because Seb alone in an empty room’ll find a dust-bunny to trip over—and sprints back. His submissive hasn’t moved.  
  
He cleans that single cruel line. Hands on autopilot. Bandages pressed into service. Soothing cream over other flogging-marks, searing scorches. Sebastian never flinches.   
  
Chris runs back again with more blankets, every damn throw and duvet and fleecy cream-puff in the apartment, and tucks them both in, Sebastian cradled against his body. Touch, closeness, his Dominant’s presence. Seb puts his head on Chris’s chest, still not speaking, but after a second turns and presses lips to Chris’s skin: nuzzling, nestling, between a kiss and clumsy uncoordinated mouthing at him. Chris strokes his hair. Tells him that’s fine, that’s okay, he’s so good, such a good boy; and Sebastian makes a small cracked-china sound and breathes a wobbly exhale into Chris’s chest.  
  
This is _almost_ completely new behavior, this nuzzling, but he’s aware of it; it’s comfort for them both, not only submissives, though that’s the context he’s heard about it in—and Sebastian, once before, very very far under, had done something like it while held securely close against him. It feels good now, Sebastian’s unfocused kisses and kitten-licks and open mouth tasting his skin. Sebastian’s seeking and finding security in him. In Chris. His Dominant. Yes.  
  
He pets Seb’s hair for a while. Coaxes that head up, holds an open water-bottle with a straw to confused lips. Sebastian knows what to do with something at his mouth, and sucks, and swallows, so he’s getting hydration; a couple minutes after that Chris tempts him to nibble chocolate-covered raisins and some trail mix, fruits and nuts and sugar for energy, out of fingers, then eases his head back down. Sebastian nuzzles at Chris’s collarbone, lips wandering without direction over tattoo-ink.  
  
The night’s hushed and glowing all around them. Heat builds up in their blanket-nest. Sebastian’s body’s lax and untroubled against his.  
  
He offers more water, with a penitent kiss to that hair. Sebastian drinks obediently, and this time blinks afterward, gaze coming back partway from wherever he’d been, where Chris can’t follow.  
  
“Hey,” Chris ventures, low and tiptoeing ahead. “Love you.”  
  
Sebastian blinks again.  
  
“Okay. You’re okay, you don’t have to talk if you don’t feel like it, you’re doin’ so good, you’re so good for me, okay? My good little sub.” His voice lurches and lumbers over vowels and consonants, speech and gaps. Sebastian’s his sub. And Chris hurt him. Accidentally, yes; he’s making it better, yes; he believes that. But the fact remains.  
  
Sebastian blinks a third time. His lips say _Chris_ , without sound.  
  
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m right here.”  
  
“I know.” Sebastian’s voice. Barely audible. Filling up Chris’s universe. He battles back tears of relief, of guilt, of joy; Sebastian goes on, “I love you. Chris.”  
  
Chris does cry, then.  
  
“Shh,” Sebastian murmurs, head back on Chris’s shoulder, hand over Chris’s heart. “You’re okay. I’m okay. I’m here too.”  
  
Chris tries to laugh while crying.  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian says, “yes,” and kisses him again, tired and triumphant, protected and protective, secure and safe. “I feel good, Chris. I promise I do.”  
  
“You do…”  
  
“You said I was,” Sebastian tacks on, weakly teasing, Chris’s other half and beating pulse and security, “so I feel it. Good.”  
  
“You’re really okay.”  
  
“With you I am.” Musician’s fingers sketch a lopsided heart over Chris’s chest, matching the beat. “I might be sore…we probably shouldn’t tie me to the bed on my back for a few days…but it’s not any worse than what I’ve done to myself, like when we were moving, when I cut my hand open with the—”  
  
“I remember that, yeah. When you told me you loved me.” He puts his hand over Sebastian’s. Capturing that heart, that willing heart. Soreness is in some ways reassuring: he loathes it, but that means Seb’s reactions’re normalizing. Evening out. “And by a few days you mean like a week. Two.”  
  
“Really, sir…don’t be surprised if I decide _you_ get to be on your back while I sit on top of you, then.” Seb bats faux-innocent eyelashes at him. “I like feeling your cock inside me. I like sex with you. Why was that past tense? When I told you I loved you—I _love_ you.”   
  
“I know,” Chris says. He does. He knows. He knows it everyplace, like fine golden whiskey, amber and honey and richness drenching his bones. “And you know what I meant, sub. I know you know. The first time you ever said it. So that’s two weeks, for being a brat.” And to let Seb’s back heal. To let his own heart do the same.  
  
“But we could try—”  
  
“You want me to make it three? I decide what you get to have. When you get to have it.” Because you want me to. Because you trust me to. Even now. You _do_. “Be good. Want more chocolate? Here.”  
  
Sebastian says, “Yes, Chris,” and nibbles sweetness from his fingers, and licks those lips, and smiles.

 

Fourteen days later—the morning of the fifteenth day, to be precise—Sebastian says, “I want you to blindfold me.”  
  
“You hate blindfolds.” Automatic. Sebastian does; he knows that. He frowns at his submissive; Seb smiles sunnily. He’s lying on his stomach, balanced on elbows, in the stardust tumble of their sheets: bathed in morning light and expensive thread count and nudity. He’d been lazily kissing Chris’s thigh, hip, waist; Chris’s cock’s quite happy to let his husband take initiative and explore, with Chris’s fingers resting in sleep-fluffy dark hair.  
  
“Oh, hate…such a strong word.” Sebastian bites nonchalantly at Chris’s hipbone. “I’ve done it before.”  
  
“Yeah, and you cried.” Seb had told him the story of that particular club encounter early on. Chris’d sworn up and down and sideways that they’d never never never play with sensory deprivation, given that. “No blindfolds.”  
  
“I’m not asking simply to make you reassure me.” Seb scoots up but leaves a hand wrapped around Chris’s erection, which is flagging somewhat but undeniably still interested. “Though the affirmation’s nice. I’m making a point. Um. Pun not intended.”  
  
They both look at Chris’s cock, and his submissive’s grip on it, for a second. Can’t not.   
  
“My _point_ ,” Sebastian continues, thumb rubbing over the tip, eyes trained on his Dominant’s face, “is that…we could use that, I think. Reassurance. I said I would’ve asked you to stop, two weeks ago; I know you believe me when I say so, but I think we both need to know. Making sense so far?”  
  
“No,” Chris says, because it is and he doesn’t like it. “I don’t like it.”  
  
Sebastian, who knows this, goes on. Both talking and teasing, voice and hand. “I can handle being blindfolded for a while. I do trust you and I have done it before. It’s not an absolute hard limit. I wouldn’t want that. I won’t entirely like it, no. But you can put it on me, and I won’t immediately panic, and so I can tell you to stop once I’m getting too uncomfortable, and you’ll stop. Right?”  
  
“Of course I fucking would, but you—”  
  
“I think we need this.”  
  
“We had sex _last night_ ,” Chris attempts. They had. Gentle, reverent, worshipful making of love: kisses and caresses, Chris’s large clumsy hands skimming over his submissive’s body, careful not to bruise or pinch or harm. Chris sitting up, Sebastian in his lap, supported and treasured as Chris’s cock moved inside him, prolonged as a summer dream. “It was good. It was great.”  
  
“We did, and it was,” Sebastian agrees, and then simply looks at him. Expectant.  
  
Morning sunbeams scatter through cracks in the shutters. They pop over to paint those long eyelashes with gold. To gild the wing of Seb’s shoulder-blade, to limn his spine and the dip of his back.  
  
The cross has stayed on the wall. Sebastian’s wandered over to inspect it, to run a hand over it, unafraid. Chris threw the flogger away, after scrubbing every inch of floor and cross and toys and restraints to within an inch of one of their lives, the play space or his. Seb hasn’t asked about its fate.   
  
The red’s long healed. It’d been healed within a couple days, really. If he’s honest. Not more than four days, anyway.   
  
Sebastian’s bounced back. Restored equilibrium. Better than his Dominant has. No surprise there.  
  
Sebastian keeps gazing at him, and Chris’s heart crumples like drawing-paper under the weight of all his love and fear and hope. The love gets it to expand again: to uncrumple, to unfold and bear itself.  
  
He touches his submissive’s cheek. Lets the touch turn into a caress, a cupping of soft skin and morning stubble; Seb hasn’t bothered shaving for a day or so. Chris likes that, the hint of more masculine scruff combined with such genuine profound compliance. Or maybe he just likes Sebastian. His Sebastian.  
  
He says, voice rough, “Bring me whichever collar you want, and one of your scarves.”  
  
Sebastian’s smile comes up like sunrise. He goes. Naked.  
  
He reappears carrying his oldest collar, the wedding-morning one, simple and black with the compassionate blue lining, plus what’s very obviously the first scarf he could find: Chris recognizes it as the one grabbed for a Starbucks run the day before, crimson and slim and easy to loop and tie. Sebastian likes color, deep and rich and saturated: sapphire blues, garnet reds, the purple of royalty. Their eyes meet; Chris finds himself smiling back, suddenly. God, he loves Sebastian Stan.  
  
He orders, voice probably not as firm as it should be what with all the feelings, “Come up here. On the bed. Kneel up.”  
  
Sebastian hops onto the bed, eager and unhesitating. Gets into position: kneeling at the edge, thighs taut, muscle on display. The smile’s in his eyes too, bright as midwinter mornings. Chris thinks of gold suns and gifts and open horizons.   
  
On his feet beside their bed, which lies strewn with galaxies and nebula-patterned sheets, he says softly, “I love you, Sebastian,” and takes both scarf and collar from his submissive’s hands. He taps one wrist along the way, a nonverbal command; his perfect sub instantly clasps them behind his back, and waits.  
  
Chris tells him, “Mine,” and fits the collar around his throat. They both sigh briefly when the buckle’s done. Sebastian’s lips part; his eyelashes flicker, falling under.  
  
“My good boy.” Chris rests a finger over his lips. “You’re already there, aren’t you? When I touch you. When I collar you. You know you belong to me, and I’ll take care of you.”  
  
Sebastian actually moans, a tiny and unbearably erotic breath of sound. “Yes, Chris.”  
  
“And I _will_ take care of you. I promise you that. I always will.” He leans in to kiss those adorably tempting lips; Sebastian kisses back artlessly, already floating, plainly caught in the heady sensations of belonging and being cherished. “You know that, right, sub?”  
  
“I know that, sir.” Spacey, weightless, but certain; Seb finds an unexpected rock of lucidity among waves, throws him a smile. “I did ask you for this.”  
  
“Such a brat.” Chris taps his cheek, not really a warning. “ _My_ brat.”  
  
“Yes, Chris.”  
  
“You know how to stop me. Whenever you need to. Say yellow or—”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Chris.”  
  
“Fine,” Chris grumbles, in love and unembarrassed about it, “but until you do I’m gonna do whatever I want, to you,” and lifts crimson scarf-folds to his submissive’s eyes.  
  
For all the mutual consent and playfulness in the room, he’s for a second unsure he can go through with it; he hears Sebastian’s breathing catch, and his hands freeze. But his husband says nothing, and so Chris ties fabric over his eyes, behind his head, jewel-red against Seb’s forest-dark hair.  
  
He stands there for a moment, simply looking.  
  
Sebastian’s breathing fast—his chest rises and falls swiftly—but he’s not in distress; Chris knows what that looks like, and he’s not there yet. What he is…  
  
…is beautiful. Vulnerable. Strong. A paradox. A sculpture of gym-honed muscles and planes and leanness, paired with a yielding simplicity, kneeling with his sight taken away by his Dominant’s hand. Naked but for his collar: dressed in a curl of black leather and that makeshift crimson blindfold.  
  
Chris’s body’s breathless and aching and tense as a bowstring, pulled by desire. Sebastian is beautiful, of course that’s true; Sebastian trusting him so readily, giving over so much into Chris’s hands, that’s even more beautiful. Rare and glorious. An honor. He’s humbled. He’s brimming over with a kind of tender erotic arousal he’s never known: the need to cherish his submissive in every way he knows how.  
  
He’s not touched Sebastian since the blindfold. His submissive’s quivering slightly: not knowing what to expect. Because that’s been taken away.  
  
Chris reaches out. Traces the line of those lips, wet because Seb’s been licking them. Sebastian makes another small sound, this one heartbreakingly grateful, and laps at Chris’s finger: shy needy kitten-flicks of tongue, a plea. Chris lets him have two fingers to suck on, pressed into his mouth; Seb lavishes attention on them once allowed, stroking and suckling and being good, as good as he can possibly be.  
  
Chris tells him, quiet as the sunshine, as the sheets that pool and puddle under Seb’s calves, “I want you to be able to talk, baby,” and moves the fingers. Sebastian nods but shivers. Chris trails the fingers, still wet, down his submissive’s chest. Discovers a pretty pebbled nipple; circles it, rubs at it, pinches it. Sebastian gasps.  
  
“So good,” Chris murmurs, “for me…you’re doing so well, sub, taking this…remember to stop me when you need to, you can stop this any time…” He runs his other hand up Sebastian’s thigh. Seb whimpers, blind and unable to predict the next move.  
  
Chris reminds him, keeps talking, keeps his voice low and soothing. Seb can stop him. Seb should stop him. As soon as the tension becomes too much to bear.  
  
He knows Sebastian gets scared. He knows about nightmares and lurking monsters who might swipe out with claws at any instant. He knows about secret police and overheard childhood rumors. He knows why blindfolds cause tears.  
  
Sebastian’s iron-hard, he notices, cock rigid and upright between slim thighs, and visibly flushed with want, wet-tipped.   
  
He cups the base of it. Fondles his submissive’s balls, sensitive flesh. Seb chokes on a sob, but his cock jerks and drips and smears shining desire across his stomach. Chris says, “So wonderful, sub, so amazing, just look at you, baby, gettin’ off on this, being mine, letting me see it…” and wraps a hand around his shaft and pumps, just once, leisurely.  
  
Sebastian makes another sound. Chris’s name, this one. “Please…”  
  
“Please what, baby?” He’s watching. He’s never watched anything, anyone, so attentively in his life. Every twitch, every moan, every escaping tear. He’s balancing on a razor-wire of breathless terror and brilliant crackling want. Alive to each inhale, exhale, sensation. “What do you need? Tell me if you want me to stop. I will.”  
  
“Not—no…” Breathing faster now. “Please talk—talk to me, Chris, please…soon, but not yet, not…”  
  
“Okay. Okay, that’s fine, you’re good, you’re so good, Sebastian.” Names. Anchors. Sebastian is his and Sebastian is good. “Want me to tell you what I’m doing? Where I’m touching you?”  
  
“I don’t know, sir, I can’t…” Sebastian’s really crying now. Darker splashes on the scarf, tracks along his cheeks. Chris nearly calls it off. Nearly pulls the whole thing to a shuddering halt and cradles his submissive forever.  
  
“I’m scared, Chris.” Sebastian sounds very young, this time. It’s the tears. The emotion. “But I—I—I’m yours. It feels…I want it. I want to not know—I want you to do what you want with me. I want that, sir, please. But I…”  
  
“You’re scared. I know, Sebastian. It’s okay. We can stop.” He’s even got a hand reaching for the blindfold. Brushing crimson folds.  
  
“Wait,” Sebastian argues, voice small. “A little more. Only a little. I’ll say when, I swear, Chris, but please.”  
  
Chris wavers. Rests his hand over the knot. Feels Sebastian’s hair frisk up to greet him, stray silky strands of love.  
  
“Please.” His husband’s asking. Not saying _trust me,_ but saying it all the same: with every ragged breath, with every drop of liquid desire evident at the tip of his cock. “Chris?”  
  
“I’m right here. I got you, sub.” He cups Sebastian’s tear-streaked face, draws him into a kiss, bending down to do so. Sebastian’s fingers’re still laced together behind his back, obedient. Oh, love, Chris thinks: awash with it, drenched in crystal clarity. “I got you. You just say when, and I’ll keep playin’ with you until you do.”  
  
Sebastian nods, in his hands.  
  
“Love you,” Chris vows, swooping down to kiss him again. Hands moving: tracing Sebastian’s back, fondling his ass, drumming fingers over tantalizing curves. Not a spank—nothing to hurt, nothing like that—but a reminder: he could. If he felt like it.  
  
Sebastian wriggles. Tries to spread his legs, maybe unconsciously. Chris runs a finger down the cleft between his buttocks, gets the response, discovers a smile of his own at that. “I could play with _this_. Your nice needy hole, sub…might still be loose from last night, stretched out for me…you want me to put fingers in you? Or a toy, maybe, while you can’t see me doing it? Picking what _I_ want to see inside you?”  
  
That’s playing with fire and he knows it and Sebastian gasps but they’re both shivering with something that’s not fear. He scratches nails—delicately, the barest scrape—along his submissive’s inner thigh. Sebastian sobs his name, voice failing.  
  
Chris bends down. Keeps one hand at the small of his husband’s back, just in case. Breathes out: an exhale, heated, over the swollen head of Sebastian’s cock. Then licks the tip. Closes his mouth around that tip, and licks again, sucking at him too.  
  
Sebastian screams—a tiny airless sort of scream, a dizzied yelp, a cry—and jerks against him and comes—a little, only a small spurt, borne out of confusion and sensation, and Chris drinks it up—and then is sobbing and saying: “Yellow, yellow, wait, Chris, wait, stop—please, oh, sir, please—” and shaking like a leaf, battered by bewildering breezes of want and discomfort and craving.  
  
Chris stops instantly. Moves to stand in front of him, drawing his submissive in against his body, yanking off the scarf with one hand. Sebastian reaches for him, forgetting to keep hands in place; Chris doesn’t care. Chris holds him.  
  
Sebastian settles more quickly than he expects, calmed by petting and contact. And glances up, shaken but transparently still aroused. “Hi, sir.”  
  
“Hey, yourself, sub.” He taps Sebastian’s nose. Seems right. “You okay?”  
  
Seb considers the nose-tapping, tips his head to nip at and then kiss Chris’s index finger, nods. “Yes. The last part, just now—that was a lot. It hit the—the point where…I wasn’t sure we’d even get there, because I do trust you, but I did say it because I needed to. But that’s all, I promise. I only needed a minute.”  
  
“You sure?” He thinks so—Sebastian sounds certain—but he’s got to ask. “You did say a lot.”  
  
“Yes. I got overwhelmed, but that’s not red, that’s yellow. Pause and let me breathe, not stop.” One more smile, vivid as color after rain. “And you did exactly that. Now you may continue, please.”  
  
Chris feels his eyebrows go up. Like lightness bubbling up inside him: champagne and crazy wonderful devotion. “You giving the orders, sub?” He twirls fingers in Sebastian’s hair. The hair’s laughing; Sebastian’s eyes are laughing. Their star-covered sheets spangle with merriment. A foundation of joy.  
  
“Yes,” Sebastian says a third time, deliberately demure but smiling up at him, wearing his collar, “toss me into bed and fuck me until I can’t walk straight, sir, please, I need you, my husband and Dominant.”  
  
Chris growls something about mouthy submissives and Sebastian’s mouth and good uses for mouths, and tackles him back into the bed. Pillows bounce; Sebastian’s laughing under him, with him, and loops a leg around Chris’s waist, and then stretches arms invitingly above his head.  
  
“Oh fuck yes,” Chris announces, and grabs the scarf from its fallen heap, puzzles over his own blindfold-knot for a second, then manages to undo it and redo it around slim composer’s wrists. “Stay put. Lube.”  
  
“Was that an order? I can’t both get lube _and_ stay put.”  
  
“Smartass. I love you.”  
  
_“Te iubesc.”_  
  
“Same. Forever.” Sebastian says _I love you_ in many languages. Romanian. English. German. He’s working on Chinese and Spanish and Russian, and he knows sign language, which Chris has only recently discovered; an interviewer’d brought an interpreter to help translate questions about composing and his next Marvel film, who’d not been needed because Sebastian’s amazing.  
  
Sebastian also says _I love you_ with obscure Eastern European fairytales told in bed on chilly close-cuddled nights. With Chris’s uncle’s secret lasagna recipe, the one never before revealed to any family member. With kisses. With his heart and himself placed in Chris’s hands.  
  
He bounces back onto the bed with lube and slickness. He kisses his husband thoroughly, deep and conquering, while his hand gets busy between those long legs. Sebastian opens up for him easily; he’d been opened up last night too, full of Chris’s cock, riding that cock, panting with pleasure.  
  
When he pushes in he’s careful but he’s not wholly gentle; Sebastian wants the intensity, and moves with him, lifting hips, saying yes, yes, more, harder, Chris—  
  
He pins Seb’s bound wrists to the bed with one hand. Sebastian moans. Chris whispers, “Mine,” and fucks him, yes, harder: collisions of panting breaths and bodies, his cock pumping inside that slick hot space, pounding into the spot that makes his submissive shriek the yes again in multiple languages, babbling, noisy and uninhibited and begging and promising that he’s Chris’s, yes, yours yours yours, always, please—  
  
“My perfect little smartass sub,” Chris whispers, poised above him, Seb’s legs in the air. “My sweet boy. So good for me,” and then he says it again, different emphasis: “You’re good for me, Seb— _I love you_ —” because Sebastian is, is good at behaving and good for Chris, making him heart-whole and elated.  
  
Sebastian, pinned below him, breathes his name, breathes out, “Oh, Chris,” and tightens around him, body clenching, tremors of happiness; he doesn’t come because Chris hasn’t said he can, but it’s something like that: a ripple of transcendence, a billowing peak that’s wholly within.  
  
Chris groans. Demands, with one last coherent thought, “Come for me—want to see you—” and then he is, they both are, lifted up and inundated with it, together. He spills himself deep inside Sebastian’s body; Sebastian’s cock spills his release out between them, over his own stomach and chest, untouched.  
  
They lie together, shaking, in galaxy-starred sheets, with Chris’s hand wrapped around the crimson scarf binding his submissive’s wrists.  
  
“Chris?” Sebastian’s radiant. Limp and wrung out and euphoric: a submissive sure of his Dominant, sure of belonging.   
  
“Yeah?” He’s wrung out and kind of radiant too. Contentment humming under his skin. His body atop Seb’s, their stickiness mingling, comfortably messy. “God, I fuckin’…love you.”  
  
“I love you.” Sebastian curls fingers down to brush Chris’s hand, to keep weight in place when he might’ve moved it. “You asked me before whether I miss it. The intensity. No, I don’t.”  
  
“Huh?” Nope, still fuzzy. Afterglow. He kisses Seb’s right eyebrow just because he can.  
  
“I don’t have to.” Seb wiggles under him. “I have all of that. The sharper pieces. The nicer ones. You can take me apart and put me back together. You can tie me up and use the cane or a paddle or your hands on me until I’m crying, until I’m _flying_ , and you’ll listen if I tell you to stop, or if I just need a minute, either way, both—”  
  
“Always!”  
  
“—and you’ll hold me after, and I can hold you. I don’t need to miss anything. You give me everything. I have all of it, with you.”


	22. orders, diamonds, coconut oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to be Chris’s in public. He wants to follow orders outside their bedroom. He wants to try this. To know how it feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a thank-you fic for [wi1dflowers](http://wi1dflowers.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr, who requested the boys exploring Chris being more dominant, especially in public! Hope you like. :-)
> 
> This one takes place closer to the end of the series, certainly after [story eight,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6495817/chapters/14869177) when they first played with a leash, but it can go whenever you feel like it fits, after that.

The party twinkles and scintillates. Cocktails and fairy-lights, gold and white and lavender. Politicians and trendsetters, celebrities and wealthy art collectors. Fancy dress for all attendees: some in fashionable suits and gowns, some submissives and Dominants in traditional jewelry and attire as well. Not every one of them, but a majority.

Some pairs are tossing out centuries of custom and letting subs wear what they please, whether that means tailored suits or glittery dresses and heels, and that’s not restricted to any particular gender. Some pairs are nevertheless upholding old standards: submissives bejeweled and bedecked with finery, but dressed in ways that clearly proclaim their status, chastity devices, cuffs, leashes. Some of those subs wait on knees at their Dominants’ sides, or crawl behind or beside them. Some carry drinks, showing every sign of enjoyment at being of service, or sit on knees for idle petting.

Some pairs’ve compromised. Sebastian Stan and Chris Evans, subject of a hundred fascinated whispers, have compromised.

Chris tugs at his leash. Sebastian looks up from contemplation of a pretty dark-haired sub dressed in nothing more than a gold collar and a gold mesh cock-cage and a leash attached to the tip of the latter, and leans in. “Yes, Chris?”

“Color?”

“Green.” He should be more nervous. He isn’t. Half the point of accepting this particular invitation to this particular party had been to show the world that, yes, he’s capable of following protocol if he chooses. To demonstrate that when he and Chris choose not to, that _is_ a choice.

Chris smiles at him. Sebastian’s heart flutters. Has since their wedding night. Always will.

The other reason is related but simpler and more personal: he wants to be Chris’s in public. He wants to follow orders outside their bedroom. He wants to try this. To know how it feels.

They’ve played around with a few moments, earlier commands, Chris ordering drinks for him at other parties, eying floor-cushions at planetarium shows. It’s been more or less easy.

He’s said green. He touches his collar. Tonight’s collar. Chris catches the gesture and turns and takes his hand and kisses it: spontaneous and romantic. A prince from a fairytale. With twinkling party lights in his hair.

Chris says, low, “You’re beautiful.”

“I was thinking that about you.”

“If you aren’t comfortable doing this—”

“We should. And…” He hesitates, but he wants to. He truly does. “I am. I’ll tell you if not. But go on. Play the role you were born to play. With me.”

“Yeah,” Chris murmurs, “I think that too, I was born to be with you, is that disgustingly sappy, I don’t care if it is.”

“It is,” Sebastian says, “and I love it,” and deliberately puts his hand back up to his collar, and gathers strands between fingers, and twists it tighter. Chris’s eyes go dark and smoky. Success.

His collar tonight is spectacular. Brand-new, bought for the occasion, it’s constructed of loop upon loop of silver and tiny diamonds, sliding across his skin. They coil more tightly around his throat, then spill more loosely over his collarbone, scattering light over purposefully bare skin. He is wearing a shirt, but low-cut and nearly transparent, a flowing green-blue; he’s wearing grey otherwise, suit pants and jacket that’ve been flawlessly tailored to accentuate his long legs and slim waist. He’s thrown on just a hint of eyeliner, and he’s left his hair just a bit rumpled. As if they’ve come from bed.

They have, of course. Which would be why they’re forty minutes late. And his splendid new collar’s hiding kiss-marks on his neck.

Chris is also wearing grey, more conservative, cut along powerful lines. His shoulders stand out. Sebastian loves those shoulders; and smiles more. They’re _his_ to see after the suit comes off. Chris is his.

In fact it’s the other way around, though the belonging’s more mutual than otherwise.

“Mine,” Chris says, and twitches his leash again: an answering shimmer skates down Sebastian’s spine. “Should I remind you? You want orders, sub?”

This leash matches the collar, and fastens to a small loop along one of the center coils, at the front. It sparkles. It glints. It holds so much promise.

Sebastian’s having a hard time thinking. Has been ever since Chris paused, in the hotel foyer on the way to the party, and pulled it out and attached it: a surprise. He’d known about the collar. Not about this.

He’s wearing Chris’s leash. In public. Chris’s good little pet.

He wants to be Chris’s good little pet.

His knees wobble.

He recalls belatedly that Chris asked him a question. “Ah. Yes? I mean. Yes, sir. Chris. Please.”

“Hmm,” Chris says, drawing it out, looking him over. “You like that one? The kid practically on display over there. With the handprints on his ass, no less. Really?”

“Um,” Sebastian says, and then runs with it; he’s never been a shy or retiring sort of submissive, even when he was keeping his orientation a secret. He’d been scared and wary, but that’s different, and that was then. This is now. “Yes, Chris. Though I have to say I think you could do better. Bigger hands. Excellent technique. If we’re comparing.”

“Oh… _could_ I…you’d have to let me spank you first…”

“And who says I wouldn’t enjoy that?” He waits a beat, then throws in, “You forget, I used to go to illegal underground clubs and get Doms to take me into back rooms. To show me what they could do.”

Chris makes a noise that’s best classified as a growl.

Sebastian widens eyes innocently. “Not that you’d know anything about those sorts of scenes. So upright and polite and considerate, my Dominant. Not like me. Scandalous. Unrefined. In need of…control.”

For a split second he wonders whether he’s gone too far—Chris does worry, and doesn’t like thinking about what might’ve happened to him on an unregulated underground leather-crack night—but no, he hasn’t: his husband’s eyes absolutely smolder. Catching fire.

“Okay,” Chris rumbles, masculine and authoritative, deep and dangerous, “you asked for it.” And jerks the leash. Hard.

Sebastian gasps. Stumbles. He’s expecting something like that but his natural walking-into-doors clumsiness bounces up to say hello, and he ends up clinging to Chris.

Who says, “No. Hands and knees. In need of control, you said. So we’re gonna do that. Control.”

Sebastian’s lips part; he’s frozen, hands still on Chris’s shoulders.

“Down,” Chris snaps, and Sebastian, shocked—he had indeed asked for it, but this side of his husband doesn’t come out much even at home—hits the floor, not particularly gracefully.

He can feel his heart rate skyrocketing. His cock stiffens in his pants. Glances swing their way across the room: Chris Evans disciplining Sebastian Stan in public.

“Kneel,” Chris orders, and he gathers himself into some version of that first posture. Fingers tangle in his hair. Jerk his head back. “You want to push me, sub? You want to play with this? Then we’re gonna play.” His gaze offers something different: a soundless _are you okay, is this okay, are you sure?_

Sebastian takes a deep breath. Answers clearly, “Yes, sir.”

And Chris nods back. And his fingers brush Sebastian’s cheek, near-imperceptible reaffirmation.

“I’m getting a drink,” Chris decides. “You can follow me. Crawl.”

He’d not expected that. He’d expected…he doesn’t know. Scolding. A spanking. Teasing of his now-obvious desire followed by denial. But this—

Chris has put him on a leash once or twice before. At home. In private. He’s liked it. No, more: he’s loved it. He’s come with Chris using the end of that leash to stroke and even lightly strike his cock. He’s ended up heedless of the world, shivering, knowing only the line that connects him to his owner, himself an extension of Chris’s will. He’s lost himself and found himself in that dissolving of identity.

This is public. It’s humiliating. He’s being punished. He’s being put on hands and knees and corrected by his Dominant. He can’t even touch Chris, not without permission. For a second he wants to scream, to sit up, to call out the word that’ll tell Chris to take him home—

And yet. Diamonds sway against his collarbone, his throat. When Chris takes a step ahead the leash draws taut. He hears himself make a tiny sound, another diamond, one that’s caught in his mouth, on his tongue, drunk down like pearls in champagne.

His cock’s not any less rigid. If anything, more so. His nipples are hard too, aching drawn-up pebbles. His mind whirls and gets confused and collides with sensory input: the floor, the collar, that caress of artist’s fingers over his face.

It _is_ humiliating. The world’s watching to see what he’ll do. Expecting rebellion, no doubt. Anticipating resistance, a lack of elegant training, awkward pulling back. And yet, and yet—

He had wanted to try. They had wanted to try. And if Chris put him on the floor and demanded that he crawl it’s because Sebastian pushed him to that, because they ran with it together. This is what Chris decided; this is what Chris Evans, a Dominant who did go through proper orientation classes years ago, ordered.

Shame and desire and secret hot yearning unfold in his body like rich velvet flowers: decadent and tempting and voluptuous.

He _wants_ to be good for Chris. He wants to belong to Chris.

His Dominant hasn’t moved, waiting, leash stretched between them.

Sebastian, shivering, crawls. Hands and knees.

Something goes fuzzy in his head after the first few motions. A loss of tension. A reprieve. No longer a need to choose. He’s accepted this. Yes. He will be good for Chris and he will kneel for Chris and he will bear the eyes watching him for Chris, and deep down those velvet roses bloom more lushly: something in him likes this confusing swirl of need and display and his own abasement. He’s Chris Evans’ submissive. They’re equals in and out of bed, and these are the roles they fit into, by choice as well as by inheritance; Sebastian gives himself over to Chris, and glories in the yielding.

So, then. This. Himself. At Chris’s side. Hands and knees.

He’s not thinking much. He can’t. He waits for Chris to tell him what to do with gradually spreading bone-deep relief. Quieting of thoughts. A white floating hum.

Chris leads him across the room to the open bar, collects a beer, wanders over to one of the party’ lounge spots, grabs a chair. Sebastian settles on knees at his feet without being prompted; Chris’s glance and smile are proud but a bit concerned.

Someone he doesn’t recognize, some political associate of Chris’s congressman uncle, drops by to say hi. Chris chats briefly, exchanges pleasantries, gets Sebastian to hold his beer when they shake hands. The man grins down at him. “Not bad for a sub who never did any classes. Guess you’ve been workin’ with him a lot.”

“Some.” Chris’s voice comes casual, almost careless. “He’s got good instincts. Needs some guidance.” Sebastian almost flinches, but then his husband adds, “I don’t mind,” and he knows that’s for him, and relaxes.

He leans his head against Chris’s knee while they talk about him being pretty, being good for Chris, letting Chris prove to society that, yeah, he can be a proper Dominant. Not stirring from his spot. Not looking up. And that’s protocol, he’s not supposed to be assertive, but…he somehow doesn’t want to, either. He tucks his face into the crook of Chris’s knee. Chris is secure solid ground amid endless airy skies. He wants to stay there.

He registers the rustle of motion when the politician leaves. Chris bends down to touch him, to tap at his cheek. “Seb? Sebastian. Talk to me, baby. Color.”

“ _Verde_.” Oh. Romanian. He definitely _is_ fuzzy. “Green.”

“You sure? You look…kinda…not here. With me.”

“I’m okay. I feel…” No good words arrive in any language. “Odd. Light. Light _headed_. I don’t know.”

“Um.” Chris tilts his chin up, checks his eyes. “Maybe I should take you home.”

“Mmm. No. More.”

“Seriously?”

“A little, yes…”

“I’m not sure I should. That was a lot to ask of you, sub.” Chris’s hand pets his hair, settles over his collar, toys with diamonds. “If we stay I don’t want to punish you.”

“Do I need it?” He’s asking. If Chris says yes he’ll understand and accept that too. He trusts his Dominant to know what he needs. Simplicity lies atop his mind like a comforting blanket: this is where he should be.

Chris bites a lip, worries it between teeth, lets it go. “That’s…fuck, you mean that, don’t you? You want me to decide.”

Sebastian pulls scattered wits together just long enough. His Dominant needs reassurance. “Yes, sir, I do know what I want. I did ask.”

Chris lets out a huff that’s too grateful to be a laugh. “Brat.”

“Sometimes, yes.” He kisses that knee he’s been hiding behind. “You love it.”

“I do.” Chris bends down to kiss him on the lips. “I totally do. So half an hour, tops. Then I take you home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So…if we’ve got half an hour…you did say more…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Orders,” Chris says. “You, in public. You do what I say. Everything I say.”

“Yes _please_ ,” Sebastian agrees. He wants more of that odd floaty feeling. More of that wicked hot humiliated pleasure, himself laid bare and obedient before the world, being so good and well-behaved, making Chris proud.

“Okay.” Chris seems to be thinking. Sebastian waits patiently, though normally he’s not patient. Why this is good for him. Learning.

He watches Doms and subs drift about the room, kaleidoscopic and hallucinogenic as an opium dream. Swirls of colors, cocktails, radiant lights. Politics and connections and congratulations. People here to see and be seen. Himself kneeling on the floor, dressed in diamonds, his head on his husband’s knee. He wonders through gilded languor what he himself looks like to others: part of the scene.

Chris taps his cheek. “Okay, a couple things. First, basic stuff. You’re kinda already doing this, but anyway. You don’t talk to other Doms. And if they talk to you first, you check with me before you answer.”

That one’s extremely traditional—Scott’d mentioned it in one of their tutoring sessions, with the caveat that his big brother’d likely never ask for it—but appropriate here and now, and not simply because some of the guests might care about tradition. Sebastian nods.

“You can ask me if you need anything,” Chris says, “but I get to tell you yes or no. Like. Um. Ask me for something you don’t actually want.”

“Can I have a martini? _Two_ martinis. At once.”

“No.” Chris grins. “Though—did you seriously want a drink? I forgot to ask, shit, sorry.”

“No, I don’t care. I didn’t think to ask you at the bar.” And wouldn’t’ve wanted to, he understands, knowing it to be true. Not if Chris hadn’t offered.

And the denial, silly as it is, sends tiny rosy stars out through every piece of him. Reminders. Crystalline.

“Come up here,” Chris requests, and Sebastian hops up at once and settles in his Dominant’s lap, not without near-disaster involving his own long legs and the beer. Chris is laughing, so that’s all right. “God, I love you.”

“I love you,” Sebastian says, and puts his head on Chris’s shoulder, “sir.” He’s not that much smaller than his husband, but he likes being held, and Chris likes holding him. It’s the same feeling as when Chris praises him: that flush of warmth, of knowing he’s made someone happy and proud.

“Do you want anything, though? Water, food, anything at all?” Chris hands him the beer again, freeing up both of his own hands. Sebastian shakes his head. “Okay, but I’m gonna get you water later, and you’re gonna drink it, not sure you’re a good judge of how you’re feeling right now. I’m taking care of you. Understand?”

“Yes, Chris.”

“So sweet.” Chris slides a hand up over his gauzy shirt. To the low curving neckline. “I want to play with you a little, and I don’t want you to move, and don’t drop my beer. Show me how well-behaved you can be.”

Sebastian might’ve whimpered at that. Or at the tug to his shirt, low enough now to expose a nipple. Chris rubs a thumb over it, casually.

“Yes—oh, god, Chris—please—”

“Good sub.” Chris keeps toying with the nipple. Pinching, rolling, even twisting a bit. Anguish and delight streak through his body; Sebastian gasps, jolts in place, clutches condensation-slippery glass like a lifeline. Chris makes a small admonishing sound. “Stay still. Behave.”

Sebastian nearly has an orgasm on the spot, panting, trying so hard to listen.

Chris takes the end of his leash and brushes it over his lips. “Hold this for me.”

His vision goes dim for a second. Foggy. Shock. Choruses of groaning want. Chris tucks the end of his leash into his mouth and gets back to tormenting that nipple. No respite.

Someone else arrives to say hi. Sebastian might recognize her—an art-gallery owner, someone who’s worked with Chris—if he were currently capable of that. Her submissive’s dressed more conservatively and consequently more shockingly: a calm competent formal suit, unobtrusive, that goes perfectly with his blond hair and soft brown eyes and brown velvet collar. He’s holding both their drinks with flawless poise and evident affection.

Sebastian does not have flawless poise. Never will.

He doesn’t need to. He tastes the tip of his leash with his tongue. Chris’s. Tangible.

The art-gallery owner smiles at him—not malicious but curious, a test—and says, “Hi, sweetheart. Are you having fun?”

Sebastian, who under most day to day circumstances would completely forget protocol and answer something like _sorry, do I know you?,_ is presently being good, and enjoying it; and looks up at Chris. Anyway, he’s got a leash in his mouth.

She laughs. “Nicely done.”

Chris doesn’t exactly scowl. “He’s always perfect.”

Sebastian, even from gently billowing cotton-candy waves, is tempted to roll his eyes. He knows himself.

Chris takes the leash out of his mouth. “You can talk to her, Seb.”

“I always have fun with Chris,” Sebastian says, letting infinitesimal stress land on the last word. He is a composer; he knows how to use delicate emphasis and tone. “No matter where we might be. Or with whom.”

Chris starts shaking with laughter.

The woman laughs too, rueful and amused. “Sorry, pet. I was only interested in what you’d do.”

“You deserved that,” says her sub, smiling, cheerful. “Sorry, Sebastian. It’s just, you two don’t do public scenes much, and we were wondering. I love your collar, where’d you two find it?”

Submissives, then, can talk to each other; Sebastian’s unsure whether Scott’s hasty remedial lessons’ve covered this or not—it’s entirely possible he missed that rule, and they’ve not practiced for a while—but Chris hasn’t said anything about it and doesn’t seem bothered. “Chris designed it. With, um, Downey’s. The jeweler. They’ll do custom work if you want. We won’t…I don’t think we’ll do a lot. Of public scenes, I mean.”

“No, I get it, I can see why you wouldn’t be comfortable. I’m Colin, by the way, that’s only fair, everybody knows your name.” He’s very earnest, those earth-rich eyes big and unguarded. Sebastian decides he’s being sincere.

Colin asks, “Is it true you actually went to Onyx?” His tone conjures up hushed rumors, black leather, unregistered Doms and subs thronging together for unregulated pain and pleasure, release and agony, roses and thorns. Admiration and dismay wreath the inquiry: someone as sheltered and obviously pampered as he is would’ve never walked through those doors, sought those incandescent burning nights. “For—to find someone who—who wouldn’t ask questions?”

Sebastian sighs internally. Delicious hazy euphoria stretches thinner, not gone but bowing under the weight of memories and questions. “I did. I didn’t find what I needed. Not precisely.”

Chris leaps in heroically at this point, arm around him. “Not exactly a polite subject. If you, y’know, were thinking about _good_ training.”

“I don’t mind,” Sebastian says—eighty percent true—over poor Colin’s flustered apologies. “I know I’m a story.”

The other Dominant raises an eyebrow. “You’re more than that, pet, and if you don’t know it you’re not as bright as we thought. You do, though, don’t you?”

Sebastian holds her gaze—and equal-rights symbols and figureheads and rallies for reform rise up unvoiced between them—for a moment. Then he turns to Chris.

Who says, “So it was great running into you,” in a tone that means the opposite; and she inclines her head in a sort of ironic salute and turns away. Colin whispers, “Sorry,” to Sebastian, and follows.

Chris mutters, cranky at the world and protective, holding him, “Sorry about that.”

“I’m fine.” He curls up more into Chris’s arms. “It’s not as if it isn’t true.” The employee who’d outed him as an unregistered sub hadn’t been from Onyx. Another club. Even further into the dark places. The kind of spot the doe-eyed Colin would’ve never even heard about. But without the scandal, without his past, he’d not have ended up with Chris Evans. “And I was fine talking to him. He seems nice.”

“ _You’re_ nice. They don’t deserve you. _I_ don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not nice,” Sebastian says dreamily, sticking his nose into Chris’s neck, liking the way Chris pets him in response. “I’m notorious. Indecent. Disreputable.”

“Yeah, except for how you’re not.” Chris puts a hand on the nape of his neck, over his collar, keeping him nestled in place. “You only ever wanted someone to be good for. Someone you could trust with yourself. That’s all you ever needed, isn’t it, sub, and you’re good for me.”

Deliciousness. Returning. His body responds; he responds, with his entire heart. “I’m yours, Chris.”

“I think we’re about done here, don’t you?”

They’ve done what they came to this party to do. Shown off Sebastian’s willingness to kneel, Chris’s ability to command. Remained themselves at the heart of it. Like twin diamonds.

Sebastian puts both arms around Chris’s neck. “Take me home, sir, and show me just how much I _am_ yours?”

“Oh hell yes,” Chris concurs, and they duck out of the party hand in hand, unfashionably visibly equally in love.

After a quick cab ride and a quicker elevator trip full of busy hands and mouths, they arrive at home. Their floor of the apartment building flings stately arms wide to welcome them; Victorian bones and old brickwork’ve embraced science-fiction paperbacks and colored pencils and floor-cushions. And Sebastian’s pots and pans smirk at them from the kitchen as they kick off shoes.

Chris looks him up and down. Chris’s eyes perform that complicated shift again: tides of fondness and comprehension ebbing into desire and dominance, leaving shining sands behind. Spaces to walk along; spaces to walk together along, footprints and the salt-sharp tug of the sea.

Sebastian feels his lips part. A breath. Going under.

Chris does not ask whether he’s certain. Not now. Chris wraps that commanding mantle around his shoulders, invisible authority straightening his spine, and asks, “Yeah?” in a way that means _we’re doing this but stop me if you don’t want to, you can, you always can._

Sebastian Stan, standing before his Dominant, sock-clad toes peeking out from his dress pants, diamonds at his throat and over his collarbone, says, “Yes.”

His toes shiver and sing. The floorboards shiver and sing. Night surrounds them but the lights’re on; the paradox drowns his senses. Midnight oceans, wine-dark, profound and vast; joyful points of gold. The flare of precious stones. Sunlight. No. Lamplight. Their bedroom lamps. When did they end up in the bedroom? Has he been following Chris’s hand on his leash the whole time?

Chris leads him to the alcove of the play-space. Orders, “Kneel. Up.”

He does. He remains on knees, enjoying his own weight, the hardness of the floor. Chris could’ve grabbed a cushion; they have several for precisely this purpose. But this is good. This is firm and undeniable and bright.

He keeps his hands demurely behind his back. As if he’d ever had that aforementioned training. As if he’d come out of an old-fashioned finishing-school, polished as an ornament. That thought carries a ripple of sorrow, but only briefly so. He could’ve been better trained for Chris: true. But he is who he is, and Chris Evans loves him.

Secure in that love, in the rise and fall of blue oceans, rescued by his Dominant’s gaze, he smiles.

Chris smiles too: awed, breathless, self-deprecating in play. “How’d I get so lucky, anyway…”

“It wasn’t luck,” Sebastian corrects. “You asked for me. You wanted me.”

“Yeah, but you said yes to me.” Chris hooks a finger through the loosest strand of diamonds. Tugs. Grins at the resultant moan. “Mine.”

“Yes.”

“My good little sub. Such a good boy.”

“Yes please.” His head’s growing light all over again. Pleasantly cloudy. Emptied out and filled up by his Dominant’s praise, commands, wishes. “Please.”

Chris holds his gaze. Wraps the hand around his throat. Tightens it.

Sebastian, kneeling fully dressed at his husband’s feet, feels diamonds and silver bite into his skin. Tiny brilliant pinpricks, not enough to cut off his breathing, enough to send a frisson of danger down his spine. His cock twitches, jerks, drools wet drops into expensive briefs. Chris could hurt him; Chris won’t. Chris cares for him. Chris will take care of him.

He surrenders, tranquil. Whatever Chris wants. He belongs here, ready for his Dominant, accepting. His collar will leave marks: possession at his throat, around his neck, from pressure. He wants that. He needs that. He needs to be shown and told and reminded. He belongs to Chris, and he has a place here with Chris. That is a promise.

He feels safe, and secure, and wanted.

Chris rubs a thumb over gemstone loops. Presses harder. Sebastian’s head spins. Floating. He thinks, dazed, that surely he must be falling, softening, melting, turned to liquid wax by Chris’s touch, shaped and remade; he hasn’t moved, though. In position. As directed. Only his mind flowing, pooling, dissolving like sugar into translucent overwhelming sweetness.

Chris’s voice rasps slightly, as if he’s having difficulty getting words out. “Touch yourself. One hand. _Through_ the suit.”

Sebastian needs a minute to remember how limbs work. Chris waits.

The rub at himself’s exquisitely painful: too much and not enough, friction and pressure, the heat of his hand, but only through fabric, skin kept from contact. He sobs. He can’t help it.

“More.” Chris lifts the hand from his throat, strokes his hair: gentle and inexorable, an avalanche of love that sweeps over him and buries rational thought beneath dense cotton. “Faster.”

Sebastian does as instructed. He thinks that he is trembling, not from cold or fear, body simply failing to contain too much sensation. His cock’s granite-hard; he can feel wetness even through his pants. He must be so slick. So messy inside his briefs. For Chris.

His hand barely feels like his. That belongs to Chris too. Moving upon himself at Chris’s command.

“I want you,” Chris says, “to come in your suit. When I say you can. Like a good submissive. _My_ good sub. Always ready for me. Always wanting me, needing me, needing me to take care of you, baby. So bad you can’t wait. Except you want to. For me. And when I give you permission, then you can, you will, all over yourself. Because I let you.”

Sebastian moans. His hips jerk involuntarily. His other hand, obediently in place at the small of his back, opens and closes fingers, but does not move. His cock physically aches with impending orgasm, and then somehow it doesn’t; something switches on or off and the world fractures into pillowy rainbows, cloudlike and dazed. Unfocused. Radiant. No longer anchored in his body, his hand rubbing at his cock or the bite of floorboards into knees, but everyplace.

Someone makes a sound. Wordless, quivering. His head threatens to loll; Chris’s hand—two hands?—wrap around his throat again. Steadying. Warm. Large. A thumb swipes over his face, his cheek. He wants to kiss it. To suck on it. To have something…something in his mouth…between his legs…something between his legs feels so good, it’s nice, he feels so good…

“Oh,” Chris is saying, “oh, Sebastian—god, you’re so—oh my god, you look…I want, I want you to do what I say, okay? Listen to me.”

He is. Of course he is. He nuzzles Chris’s hand. That feels nice too. Chris slips fingers into his mouth, lets him take them in happily. He likes that. He’s Chris’s.

Chris says, “Mine, aren’t you? You know you are. All mine,” and twines fingers into his collar, pulling it tighter, playing with it, with him. “You love this.” Emotion colors his voice, but Sebastian’s too far under to sort it out, drifting in iridescent seas, lifted and tugged this way and that by sensation. He hums vaguely and suckles at the fingers in his mouth, while Chris’s other hand finds his neck, a pulse-point, cradling him.

“Mine,” Chris says again. “I want to see you come. Like this. All over yourself, still dressed, getting your nice suit filthy with it. Because I told you to. Come.”

Sebastian’s back arches; that nice feeling’s back between his legs, sharpening and deepening suddenly, an arrow of dominance landing right _there_ where it feels so good. He does not consciously make himself come; he simply is, a shudder and a wail around fingers shoved deep into his mouth, ribbons of bliss rippling through him over and over. He is pure release, infinite ecstasy; he is nothing but the climax that pours from his body and soaks his briefs and his suit, as Chris’s hand sears diamonds into his throat.

He’s swaying, a low moan coming from someplace inside, when Chris gives him another order. “Suck.” And that’s Chris’s cock—when did he—Sebastian can’t process, isn’t able to do anything other than surrender, and that _is_ Chris’s wonderful cock in front of him as he kneels on the floor of their play-space in his ruined suit, so he takes it into his mouth and sucks and licks and gulps it down. He loves Chris’s cock. He loves having that cock in his mouth, the heft and girth and taste of it.

He loves being full and happy and played with. He feels weightless and fulfilled, buffeted and yet protected by curling seas with endless waves; his body seems to want to twitch and quiver and move on its own, not under his control, too sensitive but craving more. He knows that he is slick and sticky, and now the sensation’s flickering between too magnificent and too cruel, damp fabric against tingling flesh. And yet Chris’s voice gives one more order, so he cannot stop touching himself: he must keep stroking and fondling, raw and sizzling and yet rocking into the feeling over and over.

Chris takes him hard, no gentleness in the thrusts. Sebastian falls underwater all over again, blurry with ecstasy. Yes. Yes. Good. He is good and he belongs to Chris and Chris will make him know it; will help him know it, so that there is never never never any doubt.

Chris groans and thick hot pulses flood his throat. He swallows. Time lengthens and twists like silk and spins out on a loom of eternity and stars: perhaps he’s been here forever with Chris’s cock down his throat, keeping him filled up. Perhaps it’s only been a few seconds, short enough that the heartbeat between his legs still pounds, a last convulsive dribble of climax.

Chris is talking to him, saying words that he can’t quite make out. But the voice feels nice. The sounds feel warm. Chris loves him. Sebastian loves Chris, and gladly gives himself over into those hands, that voice, that care.

He’s not aware of much. Touches. Caresses. Peace, unquestionable and serene and steady. Tranquility like the heart of a flame: the kind that burns blue and brilliant, unwavering, turning eternity into light.

He’s been down this far once or twice, though not on a given usual day; subspace, Chris’d said the first time, the purest form—not necessarily the truest or even the best, depends on the person and the scene, but the most unadulterated. Nothing exists except this moment and his submission and his Dominant’s guidance. That’s all he is. And then even that last thought goes away: subsumed by rapture.

Chris puts a hand in his hair. Draws him closer: lips buried in the curls at the base of his husband’s cock, face pressed between Chris’s thighs, Chris’s half-hard weight lying on his tongue, keeping his mouth stuffed full.

The hand pets his hair, while he holds Chris’s cock in his mouth.

He comes back some time later to the realization that he’s naked—they both are—and Chris has carried him off to bed. He’s been nuzzling at Chris’s collarbone, he discovers: suckling, mouthing, uncoordinated but leaving a smudge of pinkness over tattoo-ink. He likes that, though, and he likes having his mouth on Chris. Soothing. Comforting. When his body’s thrumming with aftermath and returning senses like weary harpstrings.

“Hey.” Chris nuzzles him right back, clumsy half-kiss to the top of his head. “You doin’ okay?”

“I love you,” Sebastian mumbles into flowing calligraphy and beloved skin, and licks that spot after. Chris tastes like salt and sweat and male heat and a faint hint of cologne from application before the party. He approves.

“Love you too,” Chris agrees, and strokes a hand along his back. “You’ve been doin’ that. Pretty out of it.”

“Oh.”

“No, I like it. Didn’t realize we’d get you that far down, just with this.”

Sebastian squirms around. There’s something different in Chris’s voice. Fond and fragile simultaneously. Like melancholy but not. More pensive, less sad. “Sir?”

“Oh,” Chris says, and then glances hastily away. “You—yeah, if you want, you need me to give you more orders or something? Kind of ease you back up?”

“Yes, but not yet.” He lifts a hand—slow and thick as glass, but Chris isn’t expecting him to move at all, so doesn’t pull away—and succeeds in turning his Dominant’s face back. “You—you’re…was it…not…”

Chris’s cheeks are wet. Damp, anyway: he’s not crying now, but clearly has been. His eyelashes stand out: even darker and longer than usual against fair skin and faint freckles. He now looks shocked at Sebastian’s words. “It was fuckin’ awesome! That was—it was—that was why. Looking down at you…standing there looking down at you on your knees—for _me_ —and I just…it just sort of…I love you so damn much.”

“And I love you. I did say.” He taps his index finger, awkward from exhaustion and fulfillment, over Chris’s lips: a kiss. Chris, getting it, promptly kisses the finger. Sebastian murmurs, “I can take care of you, in the bath, if you want…tell me to take care of you, wash your hair, sir…”

If Chris is getting overwhelmed he can help. He wants to help. What he’s here for: love and care given and returned. He sticks a foot between Chris’s ankles. “I feel good. Because of you.”

“You really do, don’t you?” Chris hugs him more tightly. “You _look_ like you feel good. When you’re under that far. After. Now.”

“Yes,” Sebastian reinforces drowsily. “Because of you, I said…I think I need this sometimes. Not every day. But maybe…a bit more.”

Chris’s laugh lands weak but audible. “Doing this every day might kill me. Death by orgasm. Like, permanent orgasm. If that’s a thing. Don’t make me talk, I don’t have brain cells left right now.”

“Permanent orgasm? That would be…you constantly in a state of climax? Continuously coming?”

“Hey, I said I didn’t have brain cells, come on—”

“All over me?”

Chris groans happily and swats him on the hip. “Give me ten minutes at least. How’re you doing, though? Seriously.”

“Tired. Sparkly. Not averse to you coming all over me, given ten minutes. I wouldn’t want this every day, no…for one thing I’d not be able to get any work done. But I didn’t mind you giving me orders. Saying no about drinks.”

Chris rolls over more so they’re face to face. “You didn’t mind, or you liked it?”

Sebastian’s cheeks, to his surprise, get warm. In part it’s saying the words aloud; in part it’s the hint of correction, asking for clarification, in his Dominant’s tone. “I liked it. Not,” he adds, “the part where you had to chastise me—I mean I did like it, then, you can—but not if we’re talking about more everyday rules.”

“Nah.” Chris bumps their noses together. “I liked it too, but yeah, same reason. I could tell it was a lot for you. It was for me too.” Other Dominants might not admit that; Chris Evans does, whole generous soul right there in those eyes. “Special occasions, maybe. But you want me to do little stuff more? Tell you no or yes, tell you what to wear, that kinda thing?”

“I think so,” Sebastian says shyly, thinking this over. “Not everything, I want to be able to, I don’t know, make coffee without asking permission, but…”

Chris plops a hand over his own heart. Vows, lips twitching, holding back merriment, “I promise never to come between you and coffee, sub.”

Sebastian kisses him for that, laughing. He spots his collar on the bedside table, dropped in a hasty heap of gemstone glitter. It’s laughing right back, spinning joy into reflections of lamplight around the room. “Then yes, please.”

“Okay.” Laughter dwindles, transforms, tumbles into something more: breathless and ridiculously overjoyed. “Okay. You want me to give you an order right now? Stay naked.”

Sebastian looks down at himself. Then at Chris. Raises eyebrows. “Hardly difficult—”

“Brat,” Chris repeats, with love. “You said I get to tell you what to wear. I want you naked. I want you to drink some water, I told you we'd do that, earlier. And I want to give you a leg massage. You were kinda on your knees a lot. And then—and then maybe I want to come all over you. We’ll see. I’ll decide for us. And you’ll listen.”

“I’m not arguing.” He isn’t. Chris wants to, needs to, pamper him somewhat after rougher treatment. Cherishing him. Reassuring them both that there’s gentleness in dominance too, and big hands can equally hold him down and treat him with tender care. “Can I pick the massage oil?”

“Yeah,” Chris says softly. “Please.”

“Coconut,” Sebastian requests, and answers his Dominant’s smile with one more—and then one more, just because—heart-bright kiss.


	23. cuddly comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve not spent even a single night apart before. Not in all this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is boop's fault, and also the fault of Sebastian "pandas are everything I live for" Stan. How is he real.
> 
> Written very quickly, in between grading essays. Canonical, wherever you feel like it fits after they've said I love you.

“How’re you doing, sub?” Chris’s voice rumbles low and concerned and loving from Sebastian’s iPad, propped up on the bed. “Feelin’ okay?”

“More or less, yes.” He runs a hand through his hair, knowing it’s a nervous gesture, knowing his Dominant’ll pick that up as well as the cuddly sweatpants and cozy blanket-burrow. His body’s relaxed—Chris hasn’t been gone that long, and Chris is _here_ , talking to him—but nevertheless. Four days.

This is only day one.

“God, I wish I could be there.” Sincere longing colors Chris’s tone. “This timing fuckin’ sucks.”

“Agreed, sir.” Chris had been invited to open an exhibit in San Francisco; Sebastian’d been planning to come, but timelines and scheduling had shuffled around in a bewildered dance with his Marvel contract, and then he’d been unexpectedly offered a chance to write the score for not one but three other films, and he’d had to juggle meetings with directors, some of whom were only free that weekend…

He sighs. “I’m handling everything.”

“You look tired.”

“It’s only been a day. I think I’ve got the Shirley Jackson adaptation, which I’m excited about, and then there’s that theme song for the Showtime series, they loved the bit I played for them in the meeting, so I need to work on that too, very seventies-themed, you’d like it…” He’s been working on that one, on and off, all evening. Edgy as the dark side of stand-up comedy, historical without being obtrusive, and nevertheless with a thrill of fun, because it _is_ historical and he loves the script for the pilot episode.

He’s also been having some trouble focusing. Easier earlier in the day. Harder as night drew in. Each time he remembers all over again that Chris won’t be coming home to him tonight.

Won’t be sleeping beside him in their bed.

Won’t be keeping him warm, or safe, or guarded from the nightmares that haven’t come lately, not for a long time now, but might be waiting to sneak back in with no knight to shield him.

“Send me some of it?” Chris shifts position, gets closer to the camera. “If you want. I’d love it.”

“Oh, of course. I meant to ask you if you’d like to hear some. How’s San Francisco?”

“Colorful.” Chris grins. “Like a hundred people’ve told me how awesome we are, forging our own path, being symbols, man—”

“Come back home and forge a path into my pants, please.”

“—and a cute little girl gave me a daisy at the opening. Adorable. Great artists, too, lots of modernists, but I like that, the abstraction, where the viewer brings a lot of interpretation to it. Are you wearing pants? Why are you wearing pants? Not naked?”

“I was cold. Would you like me naked? I’m glad it’s going well.” Outside the night’s brittle and crisply lit as a bone carnival: New York City, neon and sharp and gleaming. He loves the city, but right now he’s a skeleton at the party, walking and talking and not falling to pieces but missing his heart.

They’ve not spent even a single night apart before. Not in all this time. Partly that’s political: they’d needed to show a strong Dominant-submissive marriage. Partly that’s practical: they both mostly work from home, albeit in separate studios, and have flexible artistic schedules.

Partly it’s simply that neither of them likes being alone.

“Bought you some presents,” Chris says. “And by presents I mean chocolate. Ghirardelli. Decadent things I can’t pronounce. Also some other stuff. Surprises. You know they have one of the oldest designer leatherworking shops in the States? And by leatherwork I mean catering to—”

“Really,” Sebastian muses. Attention caught. Decidedly.

“Yep. _That_ district. Fancy. They were thrilled to be serving me.” Such a notorious Dominant, suggests the flatness in that last phrase; but Chris is too buoyant about these purchased surprises to be annoyed for long. “I think my sweet little kitten’ll like some things I got.”

“I’ll like anything you’ve got, Chris.” With batted eyes. Silly and sexy, sending his Dominant into peals of laughter. That laughter floods through the call and into his body, and wraps flesh back over those chilly bones. He’s always home with Chris.

“And you’re being so good,” Chris teases, “aren’t you? Not getting off, not even touching unless you have to…you put that cage back on after the gym and your shower, right?”

“Of course.” His cock throbs at the reminder. It’s a relatively gentle cock-cage, flexible straps, but it’s absolutely still a restriction. His body, locked away. Mild discomfort mingled with arousal, which only heightens sensation. Chris put it on him before leaving; Sebastian slides a hand down to cup himself now, deliberate torment. His cock’s not his; it belongs to his husband. He belongs to his husband.

He can unfasten the cage if he chooses to. That’s precisely the point, in fact.

He strokes sensitive flesh; shivers. The ache turns every nerve ending to rainbows; and then abruptly the rainbows wobble with melancholy. He’s not even sure why, aside from the obvious. “…Chris?”

“I’m here.” Chris gets it instantly, reaching toward the camera as if the touch’ll stretch through pixels and promises. “I’m right here.”

“Four days.”

“Three more.”

“Yes…”

“Hey. Look at me.” He’d not realized he’d dropped his gaze. When he blinks he’s trembling. Chris says, “I want you to tell me about your music. That’s an order. The next Marvel movie. Whatever you’re thinking.”

“Ah…I…it’s…something more…cosmic. Space…the Infinity War, gemstones, starfighter battles…other worlds…I’m thinking about classic science fiction, space opera, hero stories. Coming of age themes. Lots of strings. Brass. Unusual instruments for alien bar scenes. Oh. Thank you.”

“Love you. Better?”

Sebastian hugs blankets to his chest. His heart fills up with love, spilling over like the release of a pent-up river, hurting in the best way. “Yes, Chris. I love you.”

“One more thing. I was gonna wait another day, but I think you should have one of them now.”

Sebastian looks over at the collection of boxes. They look back conspiratorially. He’s been trying hard to be good. Chris had instructed him not to explore.

He might’ve gone over to the play-space and poked one. One fingertip. Just to see how light that big square one was.

It’d been extremely light. He’s confused.

Chris tells him—tells him, not asks, and that feels good, that feels like affirmation—to go and bring back the big one. He does, sock-clad feet noiseless on their familiar floorboards. “This one?”

“That one, yeah. Good boy, Seb.”

Sebastian whimpers out loud. Unashamed.

“So sweet,” Chris approves, “for me. Go on, dive in.”

He shreds paper like the kitten Chris sometimes tells him he is. Tosses a lid aside. And then dissolves into laughter, collar around his neck, cock bouncing happily in its cage under sweatpants.

“You did say you like pandas.” His husband sounds incredibly smug. “I saw that reply, when you were talking to fans.”

“That was the day you left!” He lifts out the giant plush cuddly panda. It snuggles into his arms, round and squishy as a friend. “When did you—”

“Same-day delivery. It’s New York, you can get anything.” Chris’s smile’s proud and yearning and wistful and fond. “You like him?”

“I adore him. I love you.” He hugs his panda. His panda feels real. Black and white and big enough to nestle into while he’s by himself in this bed. Except he’s not by himself. Not now. “His name’s Walter. Like Walt—”

“Disney. I love you, sub.”

“Because he makes me think of you. Thank you, Chris.”

“A friend for my kitten.” Chris bites a lip, lets it go, grins a little. “Since I can’t be there.”

“He’s not you, but he’s good at hugs.” Quietly, heartfelt this time, without bubbling merriment: “I do love you, sir.”

“Hug him some more for me,” Chris says, smiling, “and you can have the next present tomorrow, if you’re good.”

“What if I’m not,” Sebastian says, teasing right back, plopped back into his blankets with his panda and his Chris.

“Then I’ll tell you what to do about that too.”

“Mmm,” Sebastian says, “tell me now, so I can think about it,” and curls up in the night to the sound of his husband’s voice narrating scenes of spankings and clothespins, riding crops and fucking machines, delirious sensations while his cock stays locked away and he’s not allowed to come, doing it for Chris, for himself, for the way they both feel, yes, good in the swirl of pleasure and power and pain, denial and delight and love.

Chris switches flights and comes home a day early. Sebastian’s wearing his second-largest plug as instructed, and playing with the vibrating function, not exactly as instructed—an oversight on his Dominant’s part, and he’s taking full advantage—while staring at the ceiling of his sound-proofed office and awaiting cosmic space-opera musical inspiration. The panda’s sitting on his desk, and sees Chris first; Chris says, “Guess neither of us could wait, could we, sub, go on, put it on high,” and Sebastian jumps up, glowing, and falls into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, this almost got WAY filthier. Like, wow, brain. Wow.


	24. chapter 23 part two: the kinkier version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kinkier version of the second half of the previous bonus scene (chapter 23, the one in which they're spending a night apart for the first time and Chris got Seb a plush panda, if you recall). Much kinkier. Much. I apologize to any and all stuffed panda plush animals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fault of everyone who said, "no, write it!" when I said my brain had thought of the kinkier way that previous scene could go. I love you, and this is because of you. I've only read this over once, so apologies for any errors!
> 
> Um...semi-canonical, I guess? If you would like this version to be inserted into the scene? The opening bit picks up partway through that previous chapter, and then takes a…more X-rated turn…

He shreds paper like the kitten Chris sometimes tells him he is. Tosses a lid aside. And then dissolves into laughter, collar around his neck, cock bouncing happily in its cage under sweatpants.

“You did say you like pandas.” His husband sounds incredibly smug across the video call. “I saw that reply, when you were talking to fans.”

“That was the day you left!” He lifts out the giant plush cuddly panda. It snuggles into his arms, round and squishy as a friend. “When did you—”

“Same-day delivery. It’s New York, you can get anything.” Chris’s smile’s proud and yearning and wistful and fond. “You like him?”

“I adore him. I love you.” He hugs his panda. His panda feels real. Black and white and big enough to nestle into while he’s by himself in this bed. Except he’s not by himself. Not now. “His name’s Walter. Like Walt—”

“Disney. I love you, sub.”

“Because he makes me think of you. Thank you, Chris.”

“A friend for my kitten.” Chris bites a lip, lets it go, grins a little. “Since I can’t be there.”

“He’s not you, but he’s good at hugs.” Quietly, heartfelt this time, without bubbling merriment: “I do love you, sir.”

“Hug him some more for me,” Chris says, smiling, “and you can have the next present tomorrow, if you’re good.”

“What if I’m not,” Sebastian says, teasing, plopped back into his blankets with his panda and his Chris.

“Then I’ll tell you what to do about that too.”

“Would you? Right now?” He doesn’t quite mean to ask—he is feeling better, and so the words come out half playful. But they do come out, and they’re half lonely. “I mean if you—”

“Sebastian.” Only his name, his name in that voice, on Chris’s lips. Hearth-fires and New England history and home. Dominance and love. Rich deep promises and command. Sebastian shivers, not from cold, but from exquisite need.

He loves Chris’s voice. Saying his name.

“If you’re gonna be a brat,” Chris muses, “we’ll have to do something about it. Or—” He stops, smiles: wistful, reaching out. “If you want me. To do something about it. Is that it, sub? You want me to remind you?”

Sebastian nods. He’s hearing Chris’s words, letting himself relax, letting tension glide away. Chris will know what he needs.

That lovely familiar drowsiness fills his head. Pink clouds. Sunrises wreathed in gold, and meltingly sweet as cotton candy, heady pooling sugar in his veins. His cock stirs in its confines, and the pressure’s resplendent.

“Clothes off,” Chris says. “Leave your cage on for now. We’ve still got a vibrator in that drawer, right?”

Sebastian dives for it. Silver. Vaguely science-fiction looking. Sleek. He waves it at the screen.

Chris grins. Tells him that’s good, he’s good, and he knows what to do with it. He does, with the help of some lube, silky-slick and dribbling. He’s shivering, skin too hot and body full of want, when he slides it in.

He’s doing this for Chris, for his Dominant, who’s watching. He trusts Chris with this. He’s also doing it for himself: this feels good, a kind of radiant dreamy joy at the strange domesticity of it all. He’s at home and they’re having long-distance sex, himself performing for his Dominant, because that’ll make Chris happy and that—as well as the physical thrumming of every atom of his body—makes him happy too.

He spreads legs, figures out where to put feet and knees, gives Chris the best view. Chris makes low-voiced approving noises. Sebastian floats even higher, giddy, stroking the vibrator in and out, making it plunge into himself, moaning as it does. His cock’s swollen and throbbing but unable to lift and rise; it’s dripping copiously, everything wet, the lube and his hand and himself. He sobs at the onslaught of sensation, head falling back.

“So good.” Chris’s voice comes steady and warm, encouraging him. The soft fur of his panda’s beside him, rubbing a hip, and somehow that melds into the voice and command, so many sensations when he’s so sensitive. He whimpers. Can’t help turning toward the furry touch. It’s his present. From Chris.

Chris notices. Naturally. “You like that? The way that feels?”

Sebastian, caught between shame and humiliation and desperate craving, whimpers again. His cheeks burn. Pink and hot.

“Okay,” Chris says, “got it. Orders. I’m thinking…I’m thinking, sub, what would you do? If I asked you to?”

“Anything—” He squirms, gasps, keeps fucking himself with the vibrator: loving the way his cock shudders and spills out a long stream of wetness, leaking and frantic and messy. “Anything, sir, anything, _please_ —”

“My sweet little sub.”

Sebastian moans. The world’s become hazy streaks of color, blue sheets and silver length pumping into him and Chris’s ocean-harbor eyes and that giant fluffy black-and-white stuffed companion. His toes curl; his spine’s made of shooting stars, and he’s quivering and falling and flying, borne on fire across dark velvet skies. He can’t think.

“I said he’d keep you company,” Chris says, and it takes a moment for the meaning to penetrate, but when it does Sebastian trembles in place on the bed, wide-eyed, shocked and yet not at all. Someplace deep inside he can imagine it. Can imagine himself rubbing up against soft fluffy stuffed-animal fur, rubbing his poor aching caged cock into that plush belly, while Chris watches—

“Yeah,” Chris says, watching his face. “Go on.”

“I—I—I can’t, I—oh god, Chris, sir—please—I don’t know—”

“Do you want to?” A simple question, and it devastates him.

“I want…” His cheeks are wet. Shaken. “If you—if you want that…sir…”

“Would it feel good? I want to see you feel good for me, Sebastian.”

And that’s a command and permission and instruction, and that’s what he needs: Chris told him to, told him to do this, to turn slightly and press himself against this stuffed animal, to let go and let his hips rock because that feels, oh, that feels—the plushness, the softness, against flushed tender flesh, and the way he can’t stop himself from moving again and again, embarrassing himself with his need while Chris gazes on…

He sobs a bit, imagining this: himself rutting up against a plush panda, vibrator filling his backside, cock turning gentle fur to slick mats as more and more liquid dribbles from his slit, as he can’t seem to stop rubbing himself upon the gift Chris bought him, mindless, mouth hanging open, making small cries.

“Good boy,” Chris praises. “Good boy. God, Seb, if you only knew—if you knew what you look like, so gorgeous, doing this for me, letting me see…”

He’s drowning in that voice and the sensations, or maybe rescued by them: salvaged, lifted up, cradled and carried high. Sunshine and caresses. Golden fog suffusing his senses. His body’s almost distant, far-off, but somehow singing to him, every rub and vibration billowing upward to bathe him in more light. He won’t have an orgasm without permission, and that’s right too: he’ll drift here forever, he’ll dreamily flutter between the hard length stuffing his hole and the pleasure-pain of his cock rubbing ceaselessly over desire-wet fur.

“Put it on high,” Chris whispers. “Make yourself come.”

He does. He doesn’t mean to shift the angle, but he does that too, and it’s blinding: the thick hardness hits that spot just right and the world goes white. His mouth tries to scream soundlessly; his cock jerks helplessly and his balls tighten and he’s spilling himself, releasing pulse after pulse, spurting across the body of the stuffed animal between his thighs. The restriction of the cage draws the moment out, spins it like glass, pulled unbearably long and glowing with painful heat. He’s sobbing as it fades, panting, bewildered.

Chris keeps talking to him. Sebastian can’t make out words. He lies peacefully in their bed, panda between his legs, hips twitching irregularly. His eyelashes feel damp; he tries to move a hand, to touch his face. His hand’s clumsy and his fingers brush his lips. Like Chris’s do sometimes. He mouths at them. That feels nice.

He drifts, sticky, sated, whole being a hum of contentment, filled up by the knowledge that he’s been good, and he feels good.

A few moments after that he registers that his Dominant’s voice has gotten louder. Worried. Not right. Chris shouldn’t be worried. He’s wonderful. Sebastian opens eyes—when were they closed?—and discovers that he can make small sounds but not quite words. He tries again. “Chris.”

“Oh god,” Chris breathes, “oh god, fuck, yeah, okay, you’re okay, good, that’s—that’s good. Can you hear me? Seb?”

“Mmm…”

“Sebastian!” With enough sharpness that he blinks clouds away and struggles to lift his head. “Sebastian. Are you okay? Can you look at me?”

“I’m…oh, Chris…oh _god_ —” His next breath turns into a splintered sob, and another one; not hurt, but processing. Body and soul. Cleansing. When he tries to talk the words come out in childhood Romanian, until he notices and starts babbling in English instead. “I’m fine, I’m fantastic, I feel—oh, god, I feel—everything’s—made of sparkles and I’m—what about you, was that good for you, did you like it—”

“Seb!” Chris holds up a hand, laughing now through apprehension. “Okay, so that’s the sort of euphoric aftermath, good to know—yes, yeah, I loved it, I love you, I totally, um, have to figure out how to wash these pants now—”

“Not fair! I didn’t get to see!”

“Later.” Chris’s smile’s beautiful and gentle and adoring: just for him. It calms Sebastian’s swinging endorphins and post-scene delirious high. Wraps him up in love. “Next time. I need you to do a couple more things for me, okay, sub?”

“Yes, sir—Chris, I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too. God, you’re adorable. Wish I was there.”

“You are,” Sebastian says, lying curled on their bed, shameless now in both rapturous release and the certainty of approval. He can do anything for Chris. With Chris. “You are.”

The panda, messy and satisfied, grins at him with button eyes.

“I need you to take that cage off,” Chris says. “It’s wet and I don’t want you to get sore. And I want you to drink some water. And eat some chocolate, there’s some in your bedside drawer. I’ll be here while you do that. And then you can sleep naked. Next to him.”

Him means their panda. Sebastian smiles at his Dominant. His Chris: the person with whom he’s felt truly free. Unashamed. Not guilty about who and what he is, his own desires. Anything, he’d thought. He can have anything he wants, everything he wants, with Chris. Because Chris adores him and cheers him on in explorations and is here for him, even on nights when their careers take them far away.

They’re themselves, together.

“I love you,” he says again, less exuberant and more serenely true. “My Chris.”

And Chris grins, and tells him, “I know, sub, I know you do, I love you too.”

 


	25. regarding facial hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian grows a beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely [Kells](http://thebestpersonherelovesbucky.tumblr.com/) as a very belated present! <333
> 
> Definitely canonical; takes place whenever you want, really, in the series, though probably likely closer to the end than the beginning, since they're comfortably in love and all.

Sebastian grows a beard. He doesn’t mean to exactly. Laziness turns into laughter when he nuzzles into Chris, and he likes that; Chris explores this development with delight, sketching him over and over and then ordering him to come over and get his face between his Dominant’s thighs, and Sebastian likes that too, all of that, every bit.

He keeps the beard. Grows it out a bit more. Chris smirks at him in public, shifting legs.

He’s unsure whether he’ll keep it for too long—not the face he recognizes in the mirror, startling him at odd moments, in silvered glimpses—but right now it’s novel, and new, and fun. And Sebastian likes fun.

He thinks, in one of those stray steam-hazy post-shower moments: I do like fun. I like being me.

It’s a revelation and a buried truth, something he’s always known but had briefly forgotten. He’d thought, the morning of his wedding, that he was too much _everything_ to be a good submissive for his husband. Fluffy hair, coltish legs, wide mouth, enthusiasm, walking into doors and walls while talking. And now apparently quite a lot of beard, as it’s growing.

Chris doesn’t seem to mind any of it. Certainly not the beard, which is, Sebastian concludes, some sort of metaphor for their love and his heart and his soul.

His heart and soul yells from the kitchen, “Seb! Your oven’s making noises at me!”

“Don’t touch that, thank you!” Sebastian yells back, and runs out from the bathroom, towel-wrapped, to rescue his blueberry cobbler and to say to his Dominant, “Do you think facial hair can be proud of itself?”

“Probably,” Chris offers, gazing at berry-scented steam. The steam wafts upward, beaming: _it_ can be proud of itself, it says. “I’m sure I’ve seen some hipster goatees that would count. Totally smug. Does this need to cool, or can I eat it?”

“We’re taking that to Scott’s party. At which point you can eat it. I meant more like…I don’t know. Never mind.”

“I think your facial hair knows it’s adorable,” Chris says. “I think it’s happy to belong to you. I think I’m happy to belong to you.”

“Isn’t that technically the other way around—”

“Bring me your leftover blueberries, sub,” Chris interrupts, reeling him in for the kiss Sebastian’s mouth wants, “and drop the towel and get on your knees.”

The blueberries are delicious. So, as always, are Chris’s kisses.

The deliciousness cannot help, a week later, when photographs of them out and about—and the internet comments on those photographs—begin popping up. “I didn’t know,” Sebastian whispers. “I didn’t _know_. Chris—”

“Don’t read that.” Chris takes his iPad away, tosses it across the sofa. “Don’t listen to them.”

“But they’re saying—if I’m not a good sub for you, if I’m too—”

“That’s stupid traditionalist bullshit.” Chris hooks fingers into Seb’s belt, tugs him into that cozy Dominant lap. “No one cares if a sub grows a beard. Doesn’t make you more or less powerful. Or in charge or not in charge, or whatever.”

“But if there’s a concern about—”

“Did I say anything about it when you grew it?”

“No…”

“Do any of our friends care?”

“No, but—”

“Did anyone say anything to you?”

“No, but that’d be poor etiquette, wouldn’t it, you had me learn—”

“I did. What’s the first rule out of that stupid ancient _Joys of Being Spineless_ handbook you’re supposed to memorize?”

“It’s not called that,” Sebastian grumbles, even though in his head it is and Chris knows it is and agrees with him, “it’s _The Joys of Being Submissive_ , and you told me I should know about it as an example of traditional attitudes even if you don’t actually want me to listen to—”

“And you’re not answering the question. Brat. Ten.”

“Ten what? Oh.” He ends up grinning: the meaningful swat of Chris’s hand over his ass had been more amused than annoyed. “Yes, sir. Um…your Dominant is always your ultimate authority? The one you should obey first, before any other person or command?”

“No matter what anyone else tries to tell you.” Chris puts a hand up, captures Seb’s chin; they’re poised on the sofa in jeans and t-shirts, bathed in city lights from open floor-to-ceiling windows like celebrations of life, unabashedly displayed and full of love. Sebastian, legs dangling awkwardly from being scooped into Chris’s embrace, never wants to be anywhere else, to have any other life.

He muses, “So you’re saying I shouldn’t worry.”

“I’m saying if anyone says anything to you you should just tell them I said fuck off.” Chris’s thumb skims his jaw, possessive and protective and gently fierce. “You said nobody did, yeah?”

“Not that I heard. Not in person.”

“Don’t worry, then. I’ll make it a command. If you want that.”

“I’m not worried,” Sebastian says, as their eyes meet, and he’s not, he’s not, “not now, at least. I don’t know whether I’ll keep it—the facial hair—or not, but it’ll be because I want to. Or not. Not because of—anything else.”

“Good,” Chris whispers, “good boy,” and it’s half Dominant reassurance and half simple happy awe, the same as the look in those eyes when Chris gazes at him, the look Seb can never get enough of and wants forever, and gets to have forever.

Because they _have_ forever, him and Chris.

Because that’s true, because Chris’s fingers are sweet as they linger on his skin—over his beard—and because he does quite like getting spanked, he inquires, “Good? I thought I was up to ten. Or did you forget?”

And Chris laughs, and says, “Twelve, and counting.”

 


	26. sounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris touches the tip of the sound, gleaming slender metal, to the tip of Sebastian’s cock. Someone makes a noise. Oh. Himself. Pleading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's the fault of Chaos and Viper, who encouraged this. 
> 
> This is another one of those...not my usual kink, but I can be into it on occasion, and it seems like something the boys would experiment with, now that they love and trust each other! Sort of mostly-canonical, I suppose, if you're wondering - in my head it is, set sometime after [story nine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7988581) in the main sequence, I think, but like the watersports chapter, it's not going to ever come up in the main narrative, so it doesn't really matter if it's not your thing and you skip it. :-)

Sebastian tugs at a wrist. Twists it simply to feel the restraints. The cuffs, thick and softly lined, reply with immobility: locked to the bedposts, keeping his arms splayed out. He smiles; he feels himself grow heavier, drowsier, sinking in.

Chris pauses. “Everything good?” Haloed by lamplight, he’s beautiful: naked and Dominant, kneeling above Sebastian’s captive body. Tattoo-ink swirls across fair skin and freckles, telling stories. His hands are kind.

Sebastian says dreamily, “Good, yes…” and lies still, supported by their sturdy bed, by the warmth of the evening, by the caress of Chris’s touch. He’s open and vulnerable for Chris. He is giving himself to Chris. He submits himself to Chris’s loving care, and exults in pleasure and pain, impacts and intensity.

Chris makes him feel glorious.

“You sure?” One big hand pets him again: tracing the line of his collar and up to cup his cheek, to brush his lips. Sebastian nods, earnest and hazy, already feeling his edges fray and diffuse into gold. When Chris slips a finger into his mouth he suckles at it; when Chris laughs softly and takes the finger away he sighs and licks his lips.

His legs are bound as well, anchored to the lower bed-posts, kept in place by a spreader-bar between his thighs. The dildo stretching his hole is large, silvery, and rigid; he’s come twice already, earlier, and has been kept in bed during and since then. He’s filled up with his Dominant’s climax, slick with lube, stuffed with the toy; he knows he is, and his body clenches involuntarily, which makes him feel it more. He moans.

“So pretty.” Chris strokes his hair this time. “You’re being so good, sub. So sweet. Taking everything. I said I wanted to see what you’d look like if I tried this, and you said yes…”

Sebastian moans again, not having words, simply languid and blissful. He knows what Chris wants to do with him; he did indeed say yes. He’ll say it more, over and over…yes, yes, yes…yes for his husband, his Dominant, his Chris…

Who is playing with his cock, that tender vulnerable flesh between Sebastian’s thighs. Having emptied itself twice—earlier, though, minutes or hours ago, before Chris sat with him and fed him by hand and gave him sips of water and juice, but time’s a blur—it’s sensitive, half-hard, willing and aching and shivering as it’s fondled. Chris has left the stretcher around his balls, incontrovertible presence, and plays with that occasionally too.

He feels a slow torturous drop of liquid swell at his tip. He whimpers. Chris toys with him some more. And Sebastian _becomes_ a toy, a plaything, a pet for his Dominant; the emotion builds and billows and overwhelms, until he’s sobbing because it feels so good, so _right_ , he belongs to Chris and Chris will take care of him, Chris will take him into that space of dark fireworks and crystal waves, where everything’s sweet to the point of sharpness and his body sings with light…

“I want you to watch.” Chris tips his chin up. “I want you looking at this. What I’m doing with you.”

Sebastian, lightheaded, watches. The position’s a bit uncomfortable, bound to the bed as he is. But Chris wants him to.

His Dominant picks up the item in question. Almost delicate. Silver and slim. Unbending. It catches the bedroom light and sparkles like a fairytale.

And oh, it is a fairytale, agree Sebastian’s languorous thoughts. The kind designed for himself and Chris: fears faced and overcome, true love and delicious kisses, wicked and kinky and spiced with ginger. Happiness and anguish and ecstasy knotted together.

He likes knots. They both do. His mouth wants to smile, a sort of fuzzy vague smile, drunk on need and surrender and his own pliancy in Chris’s hands. He knows what Chris wants to do with him; he wants to feel it.

Chris touches the tip of the sound, gleaming slender metal, to the tip of Sebastian’s cock. Someone makes a noise. Oh. Himself. Pleading.

“Such a sweet boy,” Chris says, and picks up lube, making the length all nice and slick and easy, pouring some across Sebastian’s cock too, over the head and the slit, which is wet already with the desire he can’t hold back. Chris rubs at him, presses a finger on that slit, a foreshadowing: where the sound’ll slip inside him, in that opening where nothing’s ever yet entered. Sebastian sobs, yielding, body shaking, overrun.

Chris soothes him, pets his hip, waits until he’s settled. Tells him he’s so good, he’s being so good, he’s Chris’s good boy and he can take this too. Sebastian’s cock pulses and drips another slow bead of wetness, mingling with all the lube.

Chris murmurs, “Time to put this inside you, to see how you look with that pretty cock all full for me, baby,” and begins.

The first glide isn’t much—barely anything, when Chris has been playing with a fingertip and rubbing his slit—but quickly that stops being true. Silver moves inexorably down, disappearing into his cock; Sebastian, gazing wide-eyed because he’s been told to, cannot look away. That’s him. That’s his cock being—being—

Being fucked by metal, filled up by metal, taken from the inside—

And the sensation grows and grows and redoubles and floods his body. The sound’s not large—the second smallest in the set—but it feels enormous, it feels as if his whole being’s consumed by it, this strange bizarre hard shape so deep within. He’s trembling, wracked with sensation and emotion: it burns, it’s wonderful, it feels wrong and incredible, he’s full of lightning beneath his skin, conducted by the rod…he needs to push it out, needs to come, needs to piss, needs to relieve himself, to find _release_ , and yet it keeps sliding deeper, not letting up…

He’s trembling. His cheeks are wet. His hips twitch; Chris presses him back down with an admonition to stay still, they’re being careful, his Dominant doesn’t want to hurt him.

And then Chris slides the sound back up, bringing it out about halfway; the slickness gleams where it’s just been inside him, where even that part of him has been claimed, penetrated and stuffed full and used for his Dominant’s enjoyment. Sebastian shudders helplessly; fluid dribbles from his slit, around the tip of the sound, and he can’t tell whether he’s coming or not, he can’t control his body any longer, he’s opened up and broken into coruscating pieces like sunlight through rain, fractured into rainbows.

Chris pushes the sound back in. Chris fucks his cock with it, slowly at first, then a bit faster, stroking his poor throbbing shaft from the outside too.

Sebastian feels himself dissolving. Something in his mind gives way, goes blank and tranquil, turns peaceful and molten; he can’t think, can’t process. There’s only his body left, the resplendent torment centered in that spot, that piece of himself being penetrated and caressed by his Dominant’s firm control. When his body tightens he can feel the other hard weight, the invasion of…something, the dildo, that’s right…keeping him happy there too. He’s making little soft noises, cries and whimpers and wordless mumbles. He’s trembling and rocked by wave after wave of euphoria, endless and all-encompassing.

Chris leaves the sound in for a moment, simply gazing at him: collared and bound to the bed, wet with lube and slickness and sobs, silver glinting at the tip of his cock, body thoroughly plundered and conquered and full to the brim.

Chris must be thinking something; Sebastian is not thinking, only existing, drowning in silver. Chris puts the fingers back into his mouth: making him full there too. Sebastian’s not coordinated enough to do more than mouth at them, dizzy and sloppy and enraptured. He feels…so good, yes, everything’s so good…bright and shiny and luminous, and he’s Chris’s, the way he should be, he’s so good for Chris, and so happy, happy just like this, with so many incredible sensations washing through him…

Chris’s hand’s over his mouth, mostly, and blocking his nose, and while he can breathe they’re not deep breaths. He likes that too; he nuzzles closer, and Chris laughs and says something, but Sebastian’s not hearing words. Chris sounds pleased and proud. He likes that. He likes this strange airy floating, where everything keeps on glowing, effervescence spiked with ripples of darker brighter pulses.

Chris groans. Chris’s other hand’s not touching him. Slick noises drift into his awareness. Sudden heat splashes across his body. He likes that too; he likes the way Chris gasps his name after, tremulous and reverent.

Chris’s weight moves, then; the hand leaves his face, with one final caress. The bed shifts; the sound, pressing down inside him, shifts. Chris says something else, slides it in and out—sensation peaks at that, haze sharpening all over again—and then draws it out, slipping it from his body.

Sebastian doesn’t make a noise, though his mouth stays open; his body convulses and climaxes and spills itself, all of him pulled out in the wake of the invader, no way of holding back. He comes helpless and delirious, high as starlight, and the orgasm seems endless, a continued pouring-out rather than a single tipping-point. He doesn’t know how there can be so much; it almost hurts, that fire along nerve-endings, but yet it doesn’t hurt or the hurt feels indescribably wonderful; it’s a liquid kind of fire and his cock keeps twitching and dribbling and spurting out _more_. Maybe he’s still coming, maybe it’s no longer simply come, maybe he’s simply spilling _all_ his wetness all over himself—Chris has liked that before, causing that complete loss of command over his body and bodily fluids, and Sebastian’s hips arch and his stretched slit holds nothing back—but no, too clear and thin and weak for that, or he thinks so, but he can’t really tell and doesn’t really care; he knows absolutely nothing except the ongoing tidal-wave of release that Chris has granted him, as he mindlessly twists in his bondage.

Chris strokes his cock, just once. That’s enough and too much and _too much_ and Sebastian tries to scream and instead finds the world going blurry and velvet-shrouded, taking away his senses for a while.

He wakes up to a concerned-but-clearly-trying-not-to-overreact Dominant fussing over him: Chris has cleaned him up and taken nearly everything off, the restraints on limbs and on his balls, the dildo that’s been in him for so long, but not his collar. Chris is sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, and cradling him, stroking his hair, saying worriedly, “Seb? Come on, baby, I know you’re okay, I know you said you were okay, you didn’t tap out or call stop or anything, I trust you, but just, um, if you could wake up, please, I’d really like it if you could wake up now…I know you’re resting, you need to rest, that was a fuckin’ lot to ask of you, and you did it—so well, God, I love you, I love you so much—but please, please, if you can, open your eyes…”

After some internal consideration and a fair amount of effort, Sebastian decides that this is something he can do. He does.

“Oh thank God,” Chris says, and clings to him a little tighter, bends down and kisses him, buries his face in Sebastian’s hair. “Jesus. I mean, I figured you were okay, you didn’t seem hurt, but—are you okay?”

He’s made of spun sugar, pink and fluffy. He wiggles toes. His cock aches a bit, raw and tender. He feels amazing, he decides: opened up and turned inside out and humbled and sparkling. He can’t quite talk yet, so he nods, head now resting against Chris’s chest. Chris’s chest is nice.

“I love you.” Chris rests a hand over his collar: secure tangible affirmation. Sebastian lets out a small hum of contentment and cuddles closer. The smile’s audible when Chris goes on, “I worry about you, y’know, sub. I know you know. Not sure whether I love it or hate it, when I fuck you until you pass out…”

“You didn’t quite,” Sebastian manages around a yawn. Evidently being made of cotton-candy fluff doesn’t mean he can’t be splendidly weary. “I was…oh, fine. I wasn’t awake. I think I was…I’m not sure it’s like being asleep. Not here, though.”

“Yeah, that.” Chris taps fingers across leather, over his throat. “Maybe a little too much? At the end.”

“No,” Sebastian says, listening to his Dominant’s heartbeat, “I liked it. I could’ve said something, or knocked that bell off the bed…I did notice you put it there, where I could reach it, so thank you for that…”

“We weren’t gonna do this without you having a way out. Especially if I’m gonna…” Chris actually blushes. He’s astonishing, beautiful, heroic in nighttime bedroom nakedness and entwined limbs. He lays a hand over Sebastian’s mouth again: a demonstration. “If you can’t talk.”

Sebastian kisses the hand; his husband lifts it. “I liked that too. I like…being full. Being made to be that way. However you want me.”

“Yeah, I kinda noticed.” Chris shifts a leg, adjusts cuddling position. Amber light sidles in to wrap around them too, gilding Chris’s eyelashes and muscles and the stories written in ink. “How’re you feeling? Not too sore?”

“Not yet. I reserve the right to change that answer later. And you enjoy seeing me like that.” A memory arrives. “You _very much_ enjoy seeing me like that.”

“I meant to wait, this was about you, but…” Chris grins: relieved, triumphant, giddy, in love. “You were too good. The way you looked, the way you sounded, the way you felt…just coming apart whenever I touched you, like you felt so good you couldn’t help it…and I had to. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Sebastian raises _both_ eyebrows. “I never mind you coming all over me, sir. Haven’t we established that?”

“Brat.” Fingers add a drum of emphasis to his collar; Sebastian wriggles happily. Chris offers a squeeze to the nape of his neck, which they both know melts him into a blissful puddle. “Seriously, though. Good?”

“Mmm. Extremely. I love you. I love the way you make me feel. Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“That was…that one was…it was a set. The, ah, the…” And now he’s blushing. In his defense, he’s never had to talk about these things. “You used the—the second smallest one.”

“To put inside you.” Chris rubs a thumb along the edge of his collar. Sebastian relaxes further, drifting: the lightest level of subspace, around the fringes, worn out and safe and cherished. “Next time I should make you say it. Make you ask for it. Sir, will you put a sound inside my cock and fuck me with it…”

“Yes, please. I’ll get on my knees and beg. I know you didn’t want to hurt me, and this was perfect, I felt—I feel—fantastic, it’s only a question, I’m only wondering what it’d feel like with a larger one?”

Chris starts laughing, holding him. “I’ve created a monster…I love you, _you’re_ fucking perfect, Seb…only wondering, that’s not an only, that’s a fucking incredible mental picture…yeah, okay, um, yeah. Eventually. Not yet.”

“Whenever you decide to. I’m always yours.”

“Yeah you are.” Chris beams at him. Sebastian smiles back, looking up. The bedside lamp radiates delight too, getting in on the emotion. “We’ll work up to it. If you liked this—”

“Which I did—”

“—and if you said yes—which you also did, thanks, sub, quit interrupting me, you’re adorable—we were gonna do that anyway. But I love that you asked. ’Cause I’ve got _plans_.”


	27. training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One hundred and twenty-eight,” Sebastian says. “A _hundred and twenty-eight_ rules. In the basic section.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the fabulous kittyseb! *hearts* Sorry this took ages. Life, you know...
> 
> This one takes place after they've said the I love you in [story 5, A Sure Type Thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2746376), but before they have to deal with the first real punishment in [story 6, The Sound Of You Kneeling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5426297).

“One hundred and twenty-eight,” Sebastian says. “A _hundred and twenty-eight_ rules. In the _basic_ section.”

“I didn’t write it. And you said you were willing to learn.” Chris comes over, hovers beside the bed, holds out coffee. The mug’s warm when Sebastian takes it. “Can I…”

“Sit down? Yes, of course.” He waves a hand at their brand-new bed, in their brand-new home. Narrowly avoids spilling just-arrived coffee. He’s sitting cross-legged near the headboard, one ankle cuffed and leashed, naked and collared and comfortable in late-morning light with this assignment in hand. Scattered packing-boxes occupy the floor, patient while their owners enjoy other activities. “According to this you shouldn’t even be asking. Obey all your Dominant’s orders without hesitation, indeed.”

“You mean you don’t?” Chris flops down beside him, grinning but with a hint of uncertainty, because Sebastian’s Dominant is beautifully heartbreakingly kind and hates any hint of coercion on his submissive’s part. “You don’t, what is it, exist to adore whatever your Dominant chooses to give you? Fingers, cock, toys, nothin’ at all…”

“Keep mocking me and I’ll make comments about my Dominant and having nothing to give. What on earth is this one? ‘I am only permitted to wear what my Dominant chooses or approves, in order to be pleasing—’ You can’t be serious.” He takes a sip of coffee. Eyes the Dominant in question. “I’ve seen some of your fashion choices.”

“I love you,” Chris says. Just that, grinning up at him, propped on elbows.

Sunshine flutters in through the window. Scoops up Sebastian’s heart, and paints every beat in gold.

Just for good measure it dusts all their moving-boxes and new nightstands and bedposts with gold too. Lightweight and giddy. Like his stomach, flipping into butterflies, into colors taking wing.

Three weeks ago they said it. First time. Almost inadvertent: blurted out over boxes and a cut and bandages, drops of Sebastian’s blood and a gasp in Chris’s breathing, and two souls laid bare.

In the present, knowing he’s blushing, he manages, “ _Te iubesc_ , sir.”

“Brat,” Chris says, but softly, with love and a hand sneaking over to caress Sebastian’s bound ankle. “Good thing I know that one. About your clothes, whatever, I don’t care. Not _that_ traditional.”

“We should be, though.” He drinks more coffee, thinking. For their reputation, for his position. “You could take me shopping sometime. Just say yes to everything I pick out.”

“Okay,” Chris says immediately. Sebastian ponders the letter of this agreement, and what he could get away with buying. He suspects that, were he to stroll out of a fitting room in skin-tight backside-cupping teenage-rhinestone jeans as a joke, he’d end up wearing them home and into the bedroom and into a rather messy situation.

He might be fine with that. He might be fine with Chris making him come in his pants, on his knees, trembling—

Chris pokes his hip. “Seb?”

“Sorry! Sorry, I was just—I was—never mind.” He loves Chris—he believes, he’s beginning to believe, that Chris loves him—but he’s still not entirely sure how his Dominant might react to some of the stranger wanderings of his brain. It can get bewildering in there. Daydreams and desires and scarlet underwear and spankings involving one of his wooden cooking spoons.

Which he’s now picturing. Dammit. “Ah…very much never mind. Am I honestly supposed to keep myself in good physical shape for _your_ benefit? This seems ridiculous. And inherently contradictory. Request permission to go out, but also go to the gym and maintain oneself in peak condition for whatever one’s Dom requires…”

“Let me see that.” Chris borrows the book. Chris technically has the Dominant’s guide someplace, the orientation-corresponding copy everyone—everyone who’s not Sebastian—successfully acquired upon embarking on basic instruction. Chris has flipped through Scott’s submissive’s version before, he’s said, though not in depth and not for years. Sebastian watches those big hands turn supple pages, and swallows. “Huh. Y’know, mostly we get the parts about caring for you, being stern but affectionate, remembering that it’s our job to train you, to guide you, to accept submission with grace because it’s a gift, all of that.”

Sebastian mutters a few self-castigating words in various languages. German, English, Romanian. “Grace may be asking a lot. Sir.”

“No, I meant me. Doms. We’re not supposed to take you for granted. I mean, we kinda are, you’re ours and we’re not supposed to show weakness about that, but we’re also…not.”

“What?”

Chris taps him on the thigh with the book. “You never heard _any_ of this? Not from anyone, at your—your, um…” This suggestion trails off. Lost in underground clubs, illegal nights, secrets kept. Furtive and kneeling, tremulous with confused desire, built of cravings and pain and pleasure, those secrets.

Sebastian looks down. At his cuffed ankle, at a wrinkle in the sheets, at a bruise of sunbeam over his skin. “Not a lot of talking went on.”

But Chris isn’t angry, or is more sad than angry, or more wistful than sad; book set down, one hand finds Sebastian’s knee. Squeezes. “Sorry.”

Surprised, he glances up. Finds Chris’s gaze intent on his face. “For what?”

“I know you don’t like talking about it.” Chris bites his lip, gets more concerned. “And I’m not saying you should know, I’m not sayin’ I expect you to, or that you’re not, I don’t know, good enough or something. I know you never learned. I’m just…I’m not sure how to explain things. If you never got even the basic vocabulary, sort of. But don’t think it’s your fault, because it’s not.”

“It is, though.” He pulls knees up, hugs them. The cord tightens around his ankle; his collar’s snug around his throat. He likes that feeling: he belongs to Chris, Chris wants him, Chris tied him to the bed and took him twice that morning, pressing kisses and beard-scrapes over his skin while drawing exquisite sensation from his body. “I could have tried to find out. Looked things up. Asked someone who’d not care about illegalities.”

“But you didn’t, and because you didn’t, nobody found out about you, and then they did, and now we’re here.” Chris scoots closer, tucks an arm around him, kisses the top of his head. “I like bein’ married to you.”

Sebastian leans into all that sturdy warmth. “I like being married to you, too. I don’t mind talking about it. With you. You were saying that Dominants are supposed to…not take us for granted, because being given someone’s trust is important, but you’re supposed to be more…assertive about your rights, correct? I imagine that explains the physical staying in shape bit. My appearance and skills are a reflection of you and your training.”

“Well…yeah.” Chris shrugs, kisses him again—Sebastian tips his head up obligingly, which earns a laugh and a third kiss, landing on his mouth this time. “I told you once that a lot of that shit’s pretty old-fashioned. You’re your own person. I’m not asking for it.”

He wiggles toes amid the sheet-hills. He’s thinking, or maybe only feeling; he’s cozy and safe and thoroughly loved. “Can you show me? Training. An example.”

Chris goes absolutely still beside him. Astonishment. Hopefully in a good way.

“Nothing serious,” Sebastian clarifies. Maybe that’ll help. “Nothing that—that you don’t think I’d be ready for. I’m not insulting myself,” he adds hastily—Chris hates it when he does that, even if flippantly and less than half-meant. “I know I don’t know much about this, and you know more, and I trust your judgment. That’s me being realistic. I _do_ trust you.”

“Oh,” Chris breathes, in the tone of a man hit over the head with an anvil made of love and cartoon hearts. The hearts’re in his eyes too. “Oh, Seb. I love you.”

“I love you,” Sebastian agrees. “Sir. Chris. You told me to use your name. Scott’s terrible remedial guidebook says I should say sir or even sometimes Master. I assume your own specific orders take precedence. But correct me if I’m wrong.” He even bats eyelashes at his Dominant. Maximum effect.

Chris’s smile lights up the room. Outshines the sun, which isn’t even mad about it, just happy to beam along. “God, you’re amazing. You’re so fucking…amazing. Yeah, yes, um, anything I tell you, that’s always the priority. That gets your self-defense clause in there too, because you don’t have to obey anyone else unless I say so. If anyone ever says anything to you, you just tell them you’re following my orders, and even the traditionalists’ll respect that one.”

“Yes, Chris.”

“Something you can handle…” Chris drums fingers over Sebastian’s arm, thinking: excited and bouncy and caught up in the request. Chris, Sebastian thinks abruptly, has never quite done this before either. Not like this. “Okay. Got it. Two things. No. Three. The first one’s just generally about training. The standard command’s Learn, we could use something else, but let’s go with that for now. If I say Learn, I mean pay attention, there’s something I want you to remember and, um, you know—”

“And learn?”

“You and that mouth, sub.” But Chris is laughing, shaking the bed with delight. “Such a fuckin’ brat. I love it, I love you. Yeah, though, seriously, that’s what that means. It’s a training word. You’d’ve done it first thing in classes.”

“Because being told to pay attention in class is clearly necessary. Fine. I’m learning. What else?”

Chris gives him a look. It’s midway between sarcasm and utter joy and wry dominance, settling into the role. Because his submissive’s asked.

Sebastian rolls eyes, sits up more neatly, folds hands exaggeratedly into his lap. “Better, Chris?”

“Learn,” Chris says, amused but with command underneath.

Sebastian blinks. A scamper of gold runs down his spine.

“I’m gonna untie you.” Chris is doing so while talking, hands quick and efficient. “And you’re gonna get up, and get in basic standing attention pose. And wait for my order.”

Sebastian actually knows that one—Scott’s covered a few of the basic and most-expected poses for him—and he could be a brat about it, but somehow he doesn’t feel like being so anymore. He gets up quietly and as gracefully as he can, which is not very—he hits his knee on the bed, though not hard—and slides into the best approximation he can do. Hands behind his back. Head ever so slightly bowed. Poise and elegance. An attempt at such, at least.

Chris doesn’t say anything for a second, and Sebastian can’t see his face without looking up. The bed creaks as Chris moves; a hand nudges his chin.

Sebastian, startled into slipping, does look. Chris leans in and kisses him, swift and undeniable and glorious. “Only do this if you’re happy.”

“I am,” Sebastian says. He is. The kiss lingers on his lips; he thinks it’s sunk into his bones, lacing him up and down with rainbows. He’s following Chris’s orders. He’s trying to be good. He’s pleasing Chris—his Dominant—and that feels good; he’s pleasing himself too, then, and that’s a bewildering spike of euphoria running through him, a lance of pink sugar and black leather and dizzy heat.

Chris, wearing only sweatpants and thoroughly in charge, role wrapped around broad shoulders like a cloak, nods.

And then proceeds to inspect his posture, strolling around him, unhurried and scrutinizing. And nods again in approval, but tugs Sebastian’s wrists a fraction closer together at the small of his back. Sebastian’s cheeks flush. Hot.

“Good,” Chris judges. “Next command. You’ve never done Serve, right?”

“Ah…not properly?” He doesn’t mean that to come out as a question. Strange floaty feelings in his head. “I’ve…at a club…she told me to serve her, to get on my knees and hold her drink and also, um, use my tongue to…to get her off…but you mean formally, as a command word, so no? I don’t think so?”

“We’ll have a talk about your tongue later.” Chris has begun playing with his right nipple. Not gently, either: enough to hurt. Sebastian gasps. His cock jumps. He’s suddenly too cognizant of his collar, encircling his throat. Chris toys with his nipple more. “She might’ve thought you knew. Because you did it anyway, whatever she asked, didn’t you? Because you wanted to. You wanted to serve her.”

Sebastian whimpers. Not entirely because of the delicious torment happening at his chest.

“My sweet little sub.” Chris releases tender flesh. Sebastian’s panting. “Those instincts…you do love being good, don’t you? Tell me.”

“Yes.” His voice shakes. “Yes, Chris, I—I do. I like being good. For you.”

“Good boy. You know what Serve means? Formally?”

“Um…that I do things for you?” He sounds younger. He’s distantly shocked by this. “That I get you things? Like serving you?”

“Maybe. If I say so. That can be part of it.” Chris breaks character for a second, leaning in, close and worried. “You doin’ okay?”

“I think so, yes…is there more to it?”

“Yep. Color?”

“Green.” Not a lie. Though he wishes he could figure out what the hell his body’s reactions are doing. Pain, pleasure, endorphins, cock stiffening despite the morning’s two rounds. “I’m okay, Chris.”

“Tell me if you’re not. So what that means is, if I tell you to Serve, you’re going to stop whatever else you’re doing and get in this position—it’s a good starting pose—and pay attention to whatever orders come next.”

Sebastian considers this. “What if you don’t say anything else?”

“Then you wait. Next to me.”

“But what would I do? Just stand here?”

Chris raises an eyebrow. Without warning, swats him hard on the ass. Sebastian yelps, wobbles, and shivers, and subsides into silence. He’s feeling odd. His ass stings from Chris’s hand. Chris himself says, answering the question, “Whatever I ask. If I tell you to strip naked and play with yourself, put on a show, you do it. If I tell you to go and bring me something, you do it. If I tell you to stay still, you do that too. You assume that I know best, and I’m giving you the orders, sub.”

“Ah,” Sebastian says. He’s caught between skepticism—he’s not very good at patience and waiting—and that odd lightheaded shimmery sensation. Not going away. How strange. “Should I try bringing you something?”

Chris laughs. “Okay. Go get, um, one of my paintbrushes. An older one. They’re in the box on top, in my studio.”

Sebastian runs.

He runs back, naked and breathless and for some reason inclined to smile; it’s ludicrous, he’s obeying orders, he’s being too eager, and yet—

And yet it feels good. He feels good.

He shoves the paintbrush at Chris, and tries not to bounce up and down on happy feet. Proper posture. Making his Dominant proud. Right.

Chris raises both eyebrows this time.

“What else was I supposed to—oh!” He yanks the hand back. Drops promptly and clumsily to both knees. Offers the brush again. “Better?”

“God, you’re fuckin’ adorable.” Chris accepts the paintbrush, sets it absentmindedly on the bed, rests a hand on Sebastian’s head. Strokes his hair, smoothing it back into place. “Good. My good little sub. Good boy.”

Sebastian’s head explodes into twinkly starlit fluff. Some part of his brain’s busy being astonished—god, he’s on his fucking knees, Chris patting him on the head, telling him he’s a good boy, as if he’s a tiny puppy doing a trick—but that part’s getting drowned out. The hand feels too nice. The praise feels too nice. It resonates and reverberates along his bones.

Because he’s feeling iridescent and hazy, full of snippets of glinting gold amid cotton-puff clouds, he can be a bit of a brat again. Chris likes that, after all. “How long do I have to stay down here?”

“Until I say you can get up. Either out loud, or a hand signal—” Chris demonstrates; it’s a fairly obvious _get up_ gesture. “—or until I start to walk away.”

“Until you—”

“You’re still doing Serve, right? As long as I haven’t given you any other orders, anything interrupting that, you follow me and get back into your first position. So you can, y’know, serve me.”

“Oh.”

“If I want you to stay put instead I’ll tell you to stay.” Chris is petting his hair, idle and affectionate. Sebastian stifles a whimper. The hazy gold gets brighter, deeper, richer: smothering his thoughts. He can feel himself growing even harder, cock stirring and wanting, hot between his thighs. He knows that Chris can see this desire, this truth, himself so aroused by his own submission and position on his knees. That knowledge, the certainty of Chris seeing him, makes his head swim.

“Up.” Chris pets him once more first. Sebastian’s afraid to trust his own legs, but like him they’re determined not to let Chris down, so collectively—shakily—they all cope with balance. “I told you we’d do three things. Last one. Training exercise. About trust. You up for that?”

“Yes, Chris.” He’s standing in sunlight. It kisses his bare toes.

“Love you.”

“Mmm…love you, Chris.”

Chris touches his hip, his thigh, his cock, then: not impersonal, with fondness, but light and almost casual. An inspection. A Dominant observing biddable reaction. Sebastian can’t hold back the tiny moan. Chris’s fingers tighten, a caress that’s also a warning. Slickness gathers at the tip of his cock, beads up and shimmers, in response.

Chris takes the hand away. Sebastian’s trembling. “Face the wall, both hands _on_ the wall, up on your toes.”

He listens, without entirely being conscious of moving. It’s not an uncomfortable position, but a vulnerable one: on tiptoe, palms flat against cool support, unable to turn his head and look. He’s got decent leg muscles and he can hold this pose for quite a while if Chris wants, but he’s not sure why Chris wants, or if it’s supposed to be harder. He hesitates.

Chris, behind him, drops a kiss on the back of his neck: just below his collar. “I can hear you tryin’ to figure it out. Training exercise. I told you.”

“But…”

“It’s not about that.” Chris moves, picks something up, comes back. Bends down, does something on the floor—at Sebastian’s feet, he can feel the motion, but he can’t see it, which is all at once maddening—and gets back up. “It’s about you trusting me, and wanting to listen to me, and knowing that if I give you an order it’s because I have a reason. Even if it’s hard. Sometimes the reason’s just because we both like it, I mean, that’s totally a thing, but sometimes it’s because I need to take care of you, and—and sometimes it’s because…”

This time it’s his voice that wobbles. A need to take care of someone. A need to keep a beloved someone safe. Comfort in that security, striped gold as sunshine and blue as hopeful brave harbors, as past pain and present joy.

Every day, Sebastian’s not sure how he can possibly love Chris Evans any more than he does already; every day, he finds that he can, and he does, new adventures and new depths on the horizon.

“Sometimes it’s because you ask,” Chris finishes, barely audible, a confession to a priest who waits in place, given orders. “And I’ll always listen when you ask. The point of this one is, um, you don’t know what I put under your feet. So you can either listen and stay in place, until I tell you you can stop, or if you disobey me or fail to listen…”

“Then it might hurt,” Sebastian understands. “Or not. I won’t know.”

“Yeah.” Chris steps closer, on his side, visible now. One hand cups Sebastian’s cheek; Sebastian tilts his head into the gesture. “The point is you trust me not to let you get hurt. I’m telling you to stay in this pose for a reason. And also there’s nothin’ really holding you in place, you could step away, you could move, you could turn around…”

“But you told me to stay.” Only that command as restraint. His choice: yield and submit and fall into the oceans, or turn and reject it all and look at whatever’s on the floor and say no, I need to know, I’m not willing to trust you with this and with me…

He swallows. Feels the press of his collar over his skin, the hardness of floorboards under naked toes. The beating of his heart.

He stays put.

“I love you,” Chris tells him. “I love you so much.”

Sebastian closes his eyes. Nods.

“I’d love you no matter what you chose,” Chris says. “I want you to know that. If you want to stop—”

Sebastian whispers, “Green.”

Chris makes a noise—a sob, a gulp, a gasp, his name—and leans into him for a moment, breathing.

The quiet builds. It hums and pools and grows drowsy, lethargic, thick as water. Seas of blue, lying over and under his bones. The weight buoys him up and keeps him still, heavy and light, floating in slow glass. Nothing’s painful yet—he can stand on tiptoes for a lot longer than this—but somehow the knowledge that he _can’t_ move makes it all more beautiful and anguished and profound. Even if he were growing tired, he couldn’t stir, couldn’t lower heels; Chris hasn’t said it’s safe yet. So he doesn’t move. He’s good.

His head droops a little, heavy too, sinking into water traced with light. Chris doesn’t say anything, so that’s okay. Sebastian drifts more, thrumming with serenity. A melody. Music. Rhythms of the pulse in his veins, echoing the sea.

Chris moves away again and comes back. That familiar wonderful voice says words. About how good he’s being, how incredible, how gorgeous. How Chris can see that he needs this, wants this; how they might have to try more, if Sebastian’s okay, only if he’s okay. Sebastian can’t talk, which he discovers upon trying to say yes. The sound that escapes is only a low murmur of agreement, molten and wordless, inarticulate.

“So sweet,” Chris tells him, “my sweet boy, doing this for me, because I’m asking, because you want to,” and skims something over his back. Not a fingertip. Different texture. Not a kiss, either; no, it’s the paintbrush, he understands foggily. The one he fetched for his Dominant.

Chris trails the brush, older and kind, across his skin. His back. His spine. A shoulderblade. His backside, teasing: above but not directly on the opening of his body.

His skin prickles. Sings. Shudders with desperate awareness. Too much, not enough, he doesn’t know. And he’s not moving. He’s being good.

Chris circles to his side. Lets the brush explore submissive nipples, hard as pebbles and sensitive already from earlier torment. Lower, leaving imaginary invisible swirls and lines of paint across his stomach, the line below his belly button, the crease at a hip.

His cock. His poor straining cock, which he’d nearly forgotten about: one more radiant throb subsumed in compliant bliss. Now awakened, it seems to swell and ache, huge and pleading upward. Chris gives him feathery touches, caresses, flicks of brush over dripping tip. Spreading slickness.

Sebastian quivers. His legs quake. He _can’t_ fall. He can’t—he can’t come, either; Chris hasn’t said—but he needs, he needs so much, he’s made of need and of Chris and of this order—

He’s lost and found in sensation, made up of hands on the wall and a body poised on tiptoes in this glowing sea; nothing exists except himself belonging to Chris and being good and the way he feels, so good, yes, please—

He’s only aware he’s crying when Chris touches his face. Wet. Surrendered to emotion.

Chris whispers, “A couple more seconds, you can do that, just let me—” and ducks down and moves whatever that’d been under his heels—Sebastian’s too incoherent to process, though he feels something slide against his foot—and then is there beside him, one arm around him in support. “You can stop, you’re done, you did so well—god, you’re so fucking perfect, so beautiful, so—you’re so good for me, Seb, my Seb, my sub—you need to come, sub? You need to come like this, for me?”

Sebastian whimpers, clinging to his Dominant, begging. Yes. Please. Anything. Yes or no. Denial. Release. Reprieve. Whatever Chris wants. Chris knows what he needs. Chris will take care of him. He’s sure of that, flying amid incandescence.

Chris wraps a big hand around his cock. Begins stroking him, firm and authoritative. “You can, sub. You can come for me. Let me see you. Let go.”

Sebastian, sobbing, blindly arching up into the ecstasy of that hand, comes. The world drowns itself in rapturous white. He collapses into Chris’s arms.

He doesn’t in fact pass out—they’ve gotten there before, and he’s faintly surprised he’s not this time—but he’s fuzzy for a while. Drifting. Incoherent. He’s aware of Chris easing them both to the floor, back against the wall, cradling him through silvery shivery aftershocks. He thinks he cries a bit more, everything shaken loose and given up and accepted and cherished. Chris strokes his hair, rubs his back, talks to him softly, leisurely, lovingly: an anchor.

As some of the fuzziness retreats, leaving him pink and flushed and limp with completion, he blinks at his Dominant. “Was that…was I…”

“Good? Oh, _hell_ yeah, sub.”

“No, um…was that…acceptable learning? Sir?”

He’s proud of the weary satisfied sassiness. Even more so when Chris bursts out laughing. “I love you. I love you so much. You’re the fucking _best_ person, oh my _god_ , Seb.”

“Mmm,” Sebastian agrees, nestled contentedly into protective tattoos and that chest and that love. “You. Sir.”

“Are you really okay, though?” Chris rests a hand over his collar, at his throat. Adoring, that gesture; also not exactly surreptitiously checking his pulse. “That was kind of a lot. And you haven’t, before…”

“I’m fine. Tired, but fine.” He surprises himself with a yawn; even more true than he’d thought. “I asked you to give me what you thought I could handle. You did. I did. I liked it. Can I ask…now that it’s over…what was it? Under my feet?”

“Oh.” Chris grins. The grin carries a touch of relief, but is mostly made of sheer conspiratorial elation, sharing the secret. “Here.”

It’s Chris’s favorite time-worn red belt. Recognizable. Flexible. He turns it over in his hand. Nothing that would’ve hurt to step on. He knows without needing to ask that Chris would’ve kept the buckle out of the way.

He looks up.

Chris shrugs, earnest and sincere and genuine, open as a book, as a fairytale. He’s watching Sebastian’s expression. “Wasn’t gonna give you anything that’d hurt you. Even on accident. Not ever.”

Sebastian sets his Dominant’s belt down beside them, reaches up to tug Chris’s mouth back down to his, and answers, between kisses and sunbeams and their packing-boxes and their new life, “I know.”


	28. hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian doesn’t see the speeding car until it’s too late. No time for processing. No time for reaction. No time for anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Seb's not dead! Happy comforting endings, I promise.
> 
> This one's canonical, somewhere in the near-ish future, after the last of the main story but I think sometime before their one-year anniversary.
> 
> There will be at least two more, I think, because Viper told me this one was too many emotions to end on. :-p

_Sebastian_

Sebastian doesn’t see the speeding car until it’s too late. No time for processing. No time for reaction. No time for anything at all.

He’d been on his way back from Starbucks, rain tangling in his eyelashes and getting under his hat—he’d not exactly forgotten his umbrella; he’d thought he could run before the deluge hit—and turning city streets to dangerous icy puddles of peril under feet and wheels. He’d been wet and unsteady and halfway between a good mood and a longing tired one. Chris had been gone for a week, out in California doing planning for an art show and a joint exhibit with a few collaborators and a guest talk at a university; Sebastian hadn’t gone because the timing was awful and coincided with production meetings and rough scores of movie soundtracks and deadlines.

He doesn’t mind being alone exactly. He’s been used to it before. And Chris calls and they chat, usually with video, every day; he’s _not_ alone, not really. Not the same as before.

Chris gives him orders. Daily routines, commands, denial and rewards for being good. The previous night Chris’d had him wearing nipple clamps and his stiffest collar and fucking himself with their largest vibrator, the one that’s big enough to be a little uncomfortable though definitely possible with some effort, until he’d come all over himself, sobbing with pleasure and pain and release.

His collar, the simple blue-black corded version, curls around his throat like a kiss under his scarf, through the rain and the tapping of his boots.

The baristas at this closest Starbucks all know him. They’d grinned at him sympathetically today and tossed in a free white-chocolate-blueberry scone. He gets the feeling they see him, inadvertently scandalous revolutionary reformer Sebastian Stan, as some sort of folk hero.

Though they do try to feed him. Maybe they think he’s a hero in need of cuddling.

He’d eaten the scone. Only polite. Also delicious.

He misses Chris like hell, though he’s handling himself okay. He’s not non-functional, which some traditionalists would likely disapprove of: himself having agency and getting work done, making day to day decisions and going out for coffee without needing to ask.

To be fair, Chris did leave him instructions about remembering to eat. That’s because it’s true to them, though: he needs that sometimes, and his Dominant worries.

Chris will be home today. In a few hours. On a plane, as of twenty minutes ago. Reunions to come. As it were.

Sebastian’s thinking all these things, anticipatory joy and mild reminders of stretched muscles and unformed background awareness of politics and the bright crystalline splash of raindrops on his cheekbone and the taste of rich creamy coffee, a melody in his head that’s vaguely coalescing into a character’s theme, more strings, maybe, less brass, more delicate and subtle—

He’s thinking, so he’s distracted, and—

The car’s expensive and black and impatient. It ducks around others. It squeezes into impossible spaces and prompts angry honking. It whips around a corner, skids on ice, loses control.

Sebastian’s a few steps from the end of the crossing. Mid-sip. Listening to music in his head. The light’s still on his side. Chris’ll be home soon, and he wants to shower and get warm and be waiting—

He hears the screech and squeal, but not soon enough. He turns but can’t move.

For a single second the world slows and expands, giving him time to think, _Chris is going to be so scared—please let me be okay, please don’t let him be hurt because of me—_

The impact lands. Tons of metal and plastic. The pavement. Sebastian’s body. No pain, not that he’s aware of. Only blackness, abrupt as execution.

He doesn’t remember waking up, but he does that too, eventually. When he opens his eyes the ceiling sways, and pain finds him after all, spiky and sickening.

The ceiling sways a bit more. Medical equipment wobbles on shelves. A bump happens. They’re moving. It’s a vehicle. Oh. Okay. Ambulance. Not just his vision.

He blinks. His chest hurts. He doesn’t want to move because breathing seems to not feel right. He wants—he wants to not be alone, he wants Chris, he knows Chris will need him to be fine—

He tries to talk. To say Chris’s name.

Professional eyes swing into view. A paramedic. Checking his eyes, his pulse, his awareness. “Sir? Mr Stan? Can you—no, hold still—can you focus on me? Do you remember your name?”

“What—”

“You were struck by a car. I need you to stay still, please, you’re hurt.” The hands are gentle but insistent. Dominant. The firmness feels oddly nice. He yields. The paramedic asks more questions. His name. The date. Where he lives. Sebastian, thoughts gathering themselves back up, manages to answer. His head pounds. He’s dizzy.

“Yes,” the woman says, “that was a fairly major impact, it’s to be expected, and you’re doing very well, but tell me if it gets worse,” and goes back to exploring the rest of him, finding other injuries—ribs, at least, and his shoulder’s throbbing—and listening when he gasps in pain.

Sebastian, fuzzy, lightheaded, given bandages and drugs to cope with the hurting, starts drifting. In and out. The paramedic and her partner discuss him while working. They’ve scanned the chip in his collar. They’ve told the hospital. Someone’s supposed to be contacting Chris. His Dominant.

That’s good. He wants Chris.

But…but they can’t call Chris. Chris is on a plane. Can’t answer. Won’t work. He mumbles, “Chris…”

“Yes, we’ve called ahead, they’re trying to reach him.”

“No…they can’t…”

The paramedics exchange looks. Sebastian’s foggy mind figures out that he seems to be protesting contact with his Dominant. They don’t know. They don’t understand. Maybe they even don’t approve of him. If they know who he is.

“No,” he tries, “it’s not…he’s not…he won’t answer—”

Now his first paramedic looks concerned. “Your Dominant won’t answer if you need assistance?” She’s being protective of him, he realizes cloudily. She isn’t certain Chris is taking good enough care of him. “Do you have someone else to call?”

“He’s on a _plane_ ,” Sebastian says, frustrated and exhausted and abruptly near tears: shock and pain and not being able to make himself understood. “He was in…in California…he loves me, I…I love him, he’ll be so upset…”

She frowns at this. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right? That guy tried to run the light and lost control. Tons of eyewitnesses. If your Dom gets upset with you, sub, you tell him it’s not your fault.”

“Hey,” says her partner, softly, a hand on her shoulder. A story there. Sebastian’s composer-mind can see it. An outline, anyway. The sketch of it. He likes the way she cares.

“Sorry,” she says, a bit stiffly.

“He won’t be upset with me.” He’s feeling…not better exactly, unanchored and cold and tired, but at least he knows where he is and what’s happening. Which is better than not knowing. And he’s relatively certain by now that he’s not going to die. They’d’ve told him, wouldn’t they? “I only…I mean…he worries. He’s lost someone. Before. He needs me. How—how bad…”

“We’re gonna find out for sure at the hospital.” Her expression’s cleared; she pats his arm. “Those ribs, that shoulder—dislocated, we handled that—but we need to get you checked out for anything more internal, okay? And we’re keeping an eye on your head. Just rest for now. Oh, wait, though, your emergency contact—”

“Should be in there. That chip.” He really is very tired, though. Less like he might be sick, but so sleepy. His eyes want to close. “You have it. Call her.”

The other paramedic’s already pulled up a screen, having scanned his collar in order to send data over. “Lisa Evans? Your Family Head.”

“ _Da_ ,” Sebastian says drowsily. “ _Mulţumesc_.” That thank-you…hasn’t come out in English. Not on purpose, either.

“Mr Stan,” his paramedic says, sounding more alarmed. “Sebastian. Stay with us. Come on, pretend I’m your Dominant and it’s an order, little sub, can you hear—”

He can’t.

He wakes up again in flickers and snapshots. A gurney. Being rushed through the hospital. Machines that beep and coil around him and make noises. A different hallway. A different room. People come and stand around him and talk over him and poke needles into him. One of the needles makes his whole arm feel chilled; he makes a small protesting sound, but they stop him from clumsily trying to object. He goes back to sleep. He’s not sure that’s entirely by choice.

The next time he awakens he’s alone in a hospital bed, alone in the whole room in fact, except for monitors and equipment and an IV stand. They nestle around him fretfully and chirp in companionship.

Sebastian, lying limp and drained on the bed, feeling like the death of broken boulders, rolls his head to look at the monitors. Wishes he hadn’t. Swears feebly in every language he knows.

His head’s been split open. Must’ve been. Lots of screaming going on in there.

He also should absolutely not move his left arm, which he figures out by accidentally doing so. It does move, it’s not broken, but it’s supported and in a sling. He doesn’t entirely recall why, though he feels as if he should; someone said something, sometime…

His memory’s indistinct. Jumbled snarls of yarn. This scares him more than anything else.

His heart-rate jumps. He can feel it. What if there’s something seriously wrong? His brain, his head—his memory, his ability to—to compose, to talk, to write music, God, to _live_ —

He can’t quite breathe, and then he honestly can’t, as he tries to inhale and spears kick him in the chest, down one side.

Nobody comes in. That can’t be right. He can’t be _that_ alone here—

If he is he’ll figure out what to do.

He tells himself that, through the pain and the fear and the bewilderment. He tells the whole cooing and purring room and the IV attached to his arm. He’s Sebastian Stan, he’s in love with Chris Evans, and as long as he’s alive he’s damned well going to take care of Chris’s heart.

Which means taking care of himself. Which means not panicking.

You’re alive and you’re thinking, he reminds himself. You spent your whole life before Chris protecting yourself. You’ve made Chris Evans smile. You have celebrity—notoriety, but close enough—and money and _you can fucking handle this_.

He wants Chris, he wants his Dominant, he wants his husband; he wants someone to hold him, because he’s hurting a lot and trying to be brave and he wants Chris here while he’s being brave.

He nearly falls apart for the second time in as many minutes.

He makes himself lie still and think logically instead.

He’s alive. He’s maybe, possibly, not _too_ badly hurt, unless there’s something he doesn’t know. He can remember walking to Starbucks; he can remember rain; he can remember Chris’s voice and orders and orgasms from the night before. He knows who he is. If he’s lost anything it’s the blip of time between leaving Starbucks and—and a car, he thinks, and puddles, and a splash of burning coffee over his wrist—

The memory falls away like rain over glass. He hates that feeling. But he’s pretty sure he can reconstruct what happened; he’s pretty sure he hasn’t lost anything else. He’s okay.

When he tries to shift position quite a lot of fireworks explode behind his eyes and along his side. He decides to rethink his definition of the word _okay_.

A nurse, all curly hair and a big smile, pops through his doorway. “Oh, you’re awake! Let me just get your vitals real quick, and I’ll call the doctor for you!”

“How long was I—I can’t remember what—”

“Oh, no, that’s normal, just sit tight, we’re waiting for your Dominant to show up! Not yours, of course, we know he’s on his way too, but your emergency Dominant, doing this all nice and proper!” She tests his reactions, helps adjust the bed, asks him if he’s thirsty. He is, a little; he’s given ice chips until someone says water’s allowable. “If you’re looking for your collar it’s on the table just next to you, we had to take it off for some of the scans—those chips, you know, new technology—but we’ve got a bracelet on you for now!”

He looks. Definitely a bracelet.

Bland and official, the kind an institution might issue. With a tag. Impersonal and announcing him as someone’s property.

Not even his own name. Chris’s.

And he can’t remove it. He’s not allowed. And it’ll need a code from someone with authority to unlock.

He can’t help trembling.

“Oh, you’re cold!” She even gets him a blanket. “Or is it that you want your collar? I know that can be comforting, not that I’d know, totally baseline, but we’ve seen a lot of subs, and I know how hard it can be when you don’t have that anchor!”

Sebastian, lost and hurting and hating every inch of the antique symbol of thorough captivity he’d once run from, simply nods. Easier. She can think that’s what it is, that submissive dependence. Needing the connection to his own Dominant.

She’s not even entirely wrong. He does feel better when she fits it back around his throat. More grounded. It’s _his_ collar. But it’s also one Chris bought with him present, both of them together, and he had input, and the chip has his actual _name_ , and it means not just Chris but _them_.

She takes off the horrible bracelet, after, and he almost cries with relief. His skin crawls when the tag brushes his wrist, and then he actually does cry, a single gulping forced-away sob, and puts his good hand up to touch the blue and black cord at his throat. Chris. And him. Still real.

“Oh, see, you’re fine, that’s much better!” She’s the sort of person who speaks in exclamation points, and that’s probably comforting, to some extent. Everything’s always just fine.

She gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and gives him a tissue and goes to call his doctor. Sebastian lets himself shake apart for exactly five more seconds, and then swallows hard and sits upright as best he can. A monitor whirs in sympathy.

The doctor who arrives is tall, grey, and taciturn; rather like a disapproving steel heron, Sebastian concludes. The man flips through his chart without making eye contact, and makes small “hmm” noises, and dismisses him with, “I’ll come back to meet with your Dominant, your emergency authority, once she arrives.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?”

“You seem to have everything you need at the moment, and this is a case for your Dominant to—”

“But no one’s told me anything and I—”

“You are a submissive, aren’t you?” With a snap of that predatory bird’s gaze: to his collar, and back up. “I’d expect even you, Mr Stan, to know how this works.”

Even him?

“What does that mean? No, never mind that one, I don’t care. How bad is it? Am I going to be okay? When can I— _can_ I go home? Is Chris here yet, or did someone at least get a message to him? Can I have my phone?”

The man stares at him and this barrage of questions.

“Please,” Sebastian tacks on belatedly. Being good in public. Not rebellious. Asking nicely. He can do that. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble? Can I use a phone, if mine’s not here?”

“You never,” his doctor says coolly, “did have proper training, did you?”

“What? No, I—but it’s _about_ me, isn’t it, can you at least tell me—am I _okay?_ ”

The man turns into a caricature of traditionalism. Shoulders tense. Chin up. Rigid. Unbending. “Submissives should be patient. And trust Dominants to make good decisions on their behalf. And _not ask questions_.”

“But I—”

“You don’t need to know.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—but please, can you just— _did_ anyone get in touch with Chris? Or—”

The man turns away, a wall of white like a sheet of implacable ice. “Behave yourself. Submissives are inherently more excitable. Prone to hysteria. Self-control, assuming you can manage it, will help your recovery.”

Sebastian, so insulted and infuriated that he can’t even speak, sits frozen in bed. Stunned through and through.

Only for a second. He’s got words. He’s not shy. Never really has been, or at least not once he’s learned to be himself. Which he has. With Chris.

Who gave him a gift, once. A long time ago, before they’d ever even said _I love you_ , though Sebastian had begun thinking it then, or nearly so. Tangled up with that memory, that kindness.

It’s a gift that can be a weapon, though Chris hadn’t been imagining it like that. Sebastian takes a deep breath, as much as possible. Deploys it now. “My Dominant’s orders take precedence.”

Stern height, almost at the door, grows even chillier with disdain. “Don’t be absurd, he hasn’t been here to give you any—”

“Yes he has. In advance.” That hastily scribbled promise. That wording. “I’ve got it on paper. I’m authorized to make decisions about any medical issues involving my family. My family includes me.” It’d been for his stepfather, for those medical bills, so that he had the freedom to act and to make payments without having to funnel every decision through Chris.

Now it’s for him.

He snaps, “Signed and notarized. Official. So you can either tell me what I want to know, or you can hear from our fucking lawyer.” Hmm. He’s angry enough to borrow Chris’s favorite American curse word out loud. Well—he _is_.

He glares at his supposed doctor. Tries to throw all his outrage and love and commitment into that expression. Not giving way to breathlessness or consequences. He might have pillows holding him up, but they’re on his side too.

The man mutters something about Sebastian’s upbringing and training and parentage. Sebastian says as sweetly as possible, “I didn’t catch that, can you repeat it?”

The fallout of all this is that he’s told—angrily—that he’s got cracked ribs and that dislocated shoulder, now reset, plus multiple minor bruises and scrapes, and of course that head injury, both the gash and the concussion. Sebastian echoes, “Concussion?”

The man scowls. “I don’t have time to educate you.”

“I’m sure my Dominant and our lawyer will be pleased to hear it.”

At this point he’s informed even more angrily that he should expect headaches, some nausea, some short-term memory loss around the incident itself, probably sensitivity to light and noise, and likely some moments of confusion or forgetfulness for a while. “All those symptoms should disappear over the course of a few hours. At most a day. We’ll keep you overnight, maybe two days, for observation. Bed rest at home afterward. _If_ that’s acceptable to you as a decision.”

The tone’s cruel. Sebastian’s tired and cranky and not in the mood. His chest twinges. “Perfectly. I’ll be right here whenever you’re required to check on me.”

The man hisses something else uncomplimentary, and spins around to go, and it’s at this exact moment that Lisa Evans and Scott Evans arrive and fill up the doorway with emotion.

Sebastian’s never been so relieved to see anyone. He wants to collapse into a heap of tears; he wants to be strong for them; he wants someone, if not Chris then the closest family, to put arms around him and tell him that was good, he was good, and he’s safe.

“Sorry,” Lisa Evans announces to his doctor, incandescent as a warrior-parent, “ _what_ did you just say about my son?”

He’s her son. She thinks of him that way. Disgraceful reputation and all. Heat scalds his eyes for a moment.

Scott dives past the confrontation happening in the doorway. Plunges to his side. “Hey, Seb, bro, how’re you doing? You look kinda terrible. I mean, still gorgeous, but terrible. And, y’know, if you wanted us to come visit, you only had to call, not try to put your head through a car.”

“I know how much you like dramatic gestures,” Sebastian says weakly. “Scott…thank you. I’m sorry about this, I know you’re busy, I’m—thank you.”

Scott squeezes his good hand. “No problem. I’m on vacation anyway, filming on the show doesn’t start back up for a couple weeks, I’m here for whatever you need. I know they won’t’ve told you anything, hospital procedures’re fucking hideous when you’re a sub, but Mom’s here now—”

They both glance that direction. Lisa Evans has his doctor backed up against the wall. Lots of finger-pointing going on. Even her hair bristles with protective Dominant and Family Head fury.

“—and she can get anyone to do anything you want,” Scott finishes. “We tried calling Chris but he’s still somewhere over Pennsylvania or someplace like that, weather delays, I’ll run out and get him as soon as he lands. How’re you feeling? Need anything right now?”

“They did tell me. He did. He had to.” Scott looks startled, maybe even shocked at this breach of protocol. Sebastian’s head hurts. He’s not sure whether he wants to lie down or sit up more, whether that’d help with the faint nauseated feeling and the throb in his skull. “I mean…he didn’t want to. I threatened him.”

“You?” Scott squeezes his hand again. The mild alarm hasn’t gone away, despite teasing. “I’ve seen you trip over your own boots. And you’re stuck in bed with one usable arm. No offense, bro.”

“Chris said…I’m allowed to…can you turn down the lights? Please.”

“Oh, shit, yeah—are you okay? Here, is that better? What do you mean, you’re allowed to?” Scott comes back in merciful dimness and takes the chair at his side. “Am I asking too many questions? Sorry.”

“I think,” Lisa announces, arriving to claim the other chair—having permitted his doctor to escape at last—and settling in, “that we’re not going to badger you with questions—”

“Sorry,” Scott says again, contrite.

“—but there’s something we do need to know, right, Sebastian?” Not sharp but pointed, affection and kindness supported by inner metal. There’s something she hasn’t been told about their relationship. It’ll affect respective authority. “I won’t ask you for details, but I’m hearing that Chris gave you the freedom to make medical decisions. Is that true?”

Scott’s mouth drops open. “Is that legal?”

“I think it is,” Sebastian admits exhaustedly. He shuts his eyes because everything sears into his vision, the lowered lights and the emotions of Chris’s family, progressive in intention but traditionally raised. “We got it signed and written into our contract, an amendment, after. It was for my family—not me, I’m fine—I _was_ fine—but it should count.”

“Hmm.” Lisa Evans considers this. “A good lawyer could argue against it—Chris doesn’t have the right to singlehandedly overturn precedent in public institutions—but a good lawyer could also argue for it. He’s your Dominant, and he made that decision, and you’re only listening to what he’s said, and there’s no actual law that says he can’t delegate to you, only tradition, as far as I know. Sweetheart, how’re you feeling? Should we call a nurse in? Your doctor is horrid and I want a new one.”

“Yes, please,” Sebastian manages. “To all of that. My head…”

Scott’s out in the hallway before he finishes talking. Lisa takes over hand-patting duties. “He said you should be just fine, just an uncomfortable few hours, and we’ll be right here, of course. No worries, you can rest and let us handle it from here on out, so you’re in good shape for Chris.”

Chris. He blinks. “Did someone call him? Or…no, he’s still on the plane…isn’t he?”

Scott, entering in front of a new and reassuringly calm nurse, gets rather pale and wild-eyed. “You don’t remember, I said—”

“Shh,” Lisa interrupts, thumb rubbing over the inside of Sebastian’s wrist, soothing for a distressed submissive. Chris has done that too once or twice. It’s a technique. Learned. “It’s fine, boys, it’s one of the symptoms, that’s all, he’ll only be a little bit easily confused for a couple hours. Sebastian, sweetheart, his flight got delayed because of the storm, he’ll be landing in an hour or so. You can talk to him the second he’s here.”

Sebastian nods. The quietly Dominant touch is grounding even if it’s not Chris; he doesn’t mind her taking care of him. The new nurse—a slender boy with dark hair and dark eyes, who looks impossibly young but also kind—asks him how he’s doing, checks his vitals, decides he could use more medication to handle the pain and nausea, gets that set up. Sebastian ends up drowsy and unfocused but feeling much better; Scott laughs. “Dude. You look so high. You should see yourself.”

“Not the sort of getting high I’d recommend.” Would Chris like that? Himself all soft and spaced-out and floaty, a dazed and happy submissive to play with? They’d have to negotiate consent beforehand; he knows Chris wouldn’t agree otherwise. He personally wouldn’t mind trying—he likes the moments of thorough surrender they’ve found, himself helpless and pliable in Chris’s control—though it’s been years since he’s done any kind of drugs, not even weed, and not the occasional other pills, some of them especially designed to bring out submissive desires and shed inhibitions, back at a few university parties. One or two times at certain underground clubs, early on, when he’d been more desperate and reckless.

Scott now looks delighted. “I never knew you did that! Sebastian Stan, famous composer. Wow. Tell me stories. All your stories. Does Chris know?”

“Ah. Not lately. Not for…years. I can’t even remember the last time. And…I think he does. We never talked about it. Specifically. But I said yes I’ve tried things. Enhancers. Sex on enhancers. When we did our checklists.” He feels his eyebrows do that puzzled tugging-together that Chris inexplicably thinks is adorable. “So…I think…I _think_ he knows.”

“Holy shit,” Scott says, gleeful. “Do you, like, know drug dealers?”

“Don’t you dare think about it,” Lisa Evans instructs, and gives him a sip of water, which feels nice, cool and clear and liquid. “Sebastian, don’t listen to him.”

“It’s research,” Scott protests. “The sordid underbelly of the underground. I work on soap operas, Mom, I might need to know.”

“I don’t do drugs.” It’s important that Chris’s mother understands this. She might not like him anymore. “I don’t…I only…once or twice, when I was hiding and scared and they said it would help me relax and I…but I don’t, I wouldn’t, I promise.” He’d loved the release, the forgetting of fear, at the time. Not so much when he couldn’t recall a lot of the evening’s encounter, after. When he couldn’t be sure why he was sore in strange places, or certain about what he’d said or done or given away about his secret.

He never had given anything away. That’d taken someone else, who’d taken money, in the end.

He can’t quite be angry anymore. He had been once. But because of that man he’s here. With Chris—or soon, anyway—and with Chris’s family.

Who, in the form of Chris’s mother, gets promptly back to those soothing caresses. “Oh, sweetheart. We know. Of course we know. You’re such a good boy, and you only did whatever you had to do, to try to keep your life together. You’re so good for Chris, and we’re so happy to have you as part of the family.”

Are you, Sebastian wonders. I cause so many problems for you. The scandal, my past, no good training…everything people say about Chris because of who I am…and now this, even this, calling you to take care of me and then making it harder for you because I’m me…

He must say at least part of this aloud. Lisa Evans’ eyes get all huge and wistful and sad, the way Chris’s sometimes do when afraid Sebastian’s unhappy, and she gathers his good hand into both of hers. In the chair next to her, Scott’s face has crumpled into a thousand tragic pieces.

“Sebastian.” She has enough of a grip on his fingers that he can feel it. “Look at me, sweetheart. I want you to listen. As your family, as your Family Head—and I know you have your own family, but you’re officially part of ours now—I need you to listen, okay?”

She’s upset with him, then.

He doesn’t want that. He so dreadfully doesn’t want that. She’s Chris’s mother, and secondarily but still importantly, absolutely being Dominant at him right now, and he’s afraid if he tries to talk he’ll come apart and never be put back together.

So he nods. And hopes she doesn’t notice him shaking.

“We love you.” She actually reaches over and nudges his chin up, making him look as she talks to him. “I don’t lie to my family, Sebastian, and you’re family. We love you, we’re here because we love you, and when I say you’re good for my son I mean it, and when I say we’re happy he married you I mean it. Nothing else. Do you understand that?”

“You once called me,” Scott says, small and heartbroken, “brother, in Romanian. You said you’d never had one before. I said you did now.”

“Oh,” Sebastian whispers, or thinks he does. Equally small and shocked by what he’s just done, and a tiny bit newly shyly happy, and a tiny bit afraid to be so happy. “I—I didn’t mean—of course I—I only thought, for a second—I get—scared, sometimes, about—Chris and I are working on—yes, sorry, I understand. I promise. You—I’m your family. I want that. I do. Scott, I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before. Having a sibling.”

And both Evans family members beam at him like sunrise.

Lisa agrees serenely, “We’ll just chalk that moment up to car accidents and hospital drugs, shall we,” and tugs the blanket over him more securely. “Would you like us to talk to you, or to be quiet? Which may require Scott to leave the room.”

“Hey,” Scott complains. “I can be quiet. I can be excellent at being quiet.”

“Ah…” He’s tired but not sleepy precisely. He’s not in much pain. And he still needs to make amends in some fashion. “I’m up to talking. I think. Scott…didn’t you have scripts to read? To rehearse? Before filming? Do you want to read them to me? Practicing lines?”

Lisa sends him a smile that proclaims she knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Oh, um, yeah.” Scott gives him a quizzical head-tilt. “Are you sure? You want to hear me practice excruciating speeches about secret babies and evil twins and my television grandmother’s last will and testament? ’Cause that’s what it is.”

“Absolutely I do,” Sebastian agrees promptly. “Entertain me. Evil twins? More than one?”

“They do run in the fictional family.” Scott’s fishing out his iPad, pulling up an email. “Normally I have printed copies, but I didn’t bring—but yeah, this’ll work. Okay, so, um, pretend you’ve just heard Grandma’s will read, and everyone’s been disinherited and you’re all shocked—”

Sebastian widens eyes at him. Dramatically places good hand over heart. “How dare she. I’m an adorable grandchild.”

Scott snorts. “Dude. Okay, if you ever decide you’re not part of this family ever again, I want you to remember this exact moment. I fucking love you. So, you’re all shocked, right, at which point I say, aha, that’s because she learned the truth, the truth about Ava and Richard and the father of that child—or should I say, those _children_ …”

The monitors chirp, intrigued.

Sebastian leans his head back against pillows. Lets Scott’s voice wash over him. Soap-opera tales and implausible plots, twists and turns. Almost as implausible as his own life, with its brilliant happy ending. He loves Chris so much, and he’ll be okay, and he can make certain Chris is also okay.

He knows too that he’s been lucky, and he’ll think about what _could’ve_ been, later—he knows Chris’ll be thinking it—but that’s less important than what _is_. And between himself and Chris’s family, many wicked dragons of fear and doubt can be slain.

Collar securely around his throat, he settles into bed, resting, listening to the story.

 

_Chris_

Three hours late and infinite hours’ worth of frustration later, after being diverted and circling and being diverted again, Chris hits the ground at JFK.

He’s got his phone out the instant they’re allowed. He knows Sebastian must know about the delays—his submissive’s intelligent enough to check arrival times—and therefore has likely been curled up at a coffee-shop somewhere nearby, probably already on the way to come and meet him.

He spares a moment to picture the scene: his husband all bundled up against the rain, settled in like a kitten with a steaming cup of today’s praline or blueberry or butterscotch coffee, with one of those composer’s notebooks for company. Scribbled music-notes and genius off-the-cuff ideas. Seb’s hair extra-fluffy from the damp.

He’s grinning when he looks at his phone.

His heart plummets. To his toes. Which’ve gone icy. All of him has.

So many missed calls. Messages, text and voice. His mother. Scott. A number he doesn’t know. His mother again. Scott again. Sebastian’s mother.

 _Sebastian’s_ —?

He stares at his phone. His eyes, his heart, can’t process the single damning omission.

Sebastian, out of everyone, hasn’t called or texted. But that means—

If everyone _else_ has—

No. No, no, that’s not what it means. Can’t be. Not right. Silly thought.

Except it’s not a silly thought, it’s right there on a glowing screen, his mother and Sebastian’s mother and then Seb _not_ having called him, when Seb knows, when Seb _knows_ how important—

Sebastian would never not call him if there was even a question—

He’s gone numb. Trapped in his airline seat. He can’t breathe. This can’t be real. Not Sebastian. Not when Chris loves him so much, would do anything for him, would give up anything for him—it’s not fair, it’s not right, not when Seb’s been through so much and trusted him so much and they’re so happy—

Other passengers are glancing at him. At least he’s got the window; no one’s climbing over him.

He makes himself take a breath. Messages. He should listen to them. _Before_ panicking. He’s working on that.

He starts with the oldest. His mother’s voice says instantly, “He’s alive, Chris, listen, he’s being taken to the hospital but he’s going to be fine, so remember to breathe, and stay calm, and I’ll say it again. Sebastian’s hurt but he’s going to be okay. Scott and I are on the way, they called me, the way they’re supposed to if you’re not available, and we’re headed over now. It’ll take a couple of hours but we’ll be there before you, as soon as we can, and I’ll call you back as soon as we hear more. We love you. And remember, he’s going to be fine.”

Chris’s vision goes a little blurry, a little shaky, after that.

The next thing he knows he’s got two flight attendants and a man who says he’s a pediatrician hovering around him. “Sir? Everything okay?”

“Not really…” He’s clutching his phone. He thinks he didn’t exactly pass out, just…got wobbly. For a minute. Relief and fear threaten to swamp his heartbeat again. But Sebastian needs him. “I need to…my husband…my submissive…he’s in the hospital. I just heard…”

They exchange glances, make sympathetic sounds, help him up. They even get him an escort of airport employees and a cart to ride through the terminals when he says he needs a taxi, a car, something, anything. One of his escort, a thin young woman with lots of exuberant braids and a talent for shooing people out of their way, keeps peeking over at him. He wonders if she recognizes him as an artist, or as a submissives’ rights activist, and if the latter, whether she disapproves.

He listens to the rest of the messages. Scott, when they’d got to the hospital. His mother again, with updates. Sebastian’d been struck by a car while crossing the street. A dislocated shoulder. Fractured ribs. A concussion. Could’ve been far worse, though she doesn’t quite say so.

The number he doesn’t know turns out to be the hospital, trying to get in touch with him. Of course. He’s Seb’s Dominant. They need to inform him. They need his approval and authorization. Oh, God—

He nearly drops his phone. If they’d needed decisions—he hadn’t been available, and if his mother and Scott had been driving over and had no phone reception—

What if Sebastian’d needed some sort of procedure, and nobody’d been able to say yes?

His chest’s caving in. Seb’s fractured ribs, except they’re piercing right through Chris’s heart. He might be dying. He can’t feel this way and not be, can he?

No. No, logically, that’s not right. In life-threatening situations, they’ll waive the authorization and save the person first. He knows that. In handbooks and training classes. He should’ve remembered.

Sebastian’s okay, then. Has to be.

Sebastian’s mother’s message is short and asks whether she should come down. She wants to. She understands that the politics are complicated. She’s not Sebastian’s Family Head anymore, and it’s Chris’s decision, or his mother’s. She says she’s seen the accident on the news.

The news? He looks up. Finds a television or two as they go past. Catches fleeting disconnected glimpses. Prominent Hollywood composer and submissives’ rights symbol Sebastian Stan, apparently out for coffee and unaccompanied by his Dominant, struck by an out of control driver. Driver also in the hospital, broken legs. No word on Sebastian Stan’s condition.

There’s someone’s out-of-focus mobile phone clip of the collision. More of Seb being lifted into the ambulance, white and limp and bloody. A shot of Seb’s dropped Starbucks cup, crushed and empty, having rolled into the gutter. Chris puts a hand over his mouth. He’s going to be sick.

The second-to-last message says it’s from Scott’s phone. The actual voice on the other end—weak but familiar, beloved, beckoning as New York skyscrapers and winding Romanian roads—shoots an arrow of pure confusion and reprieve and shattering love into Chris’s chest.

“Chris? I’m fine, I’m here, I promise I am, I love you—no, all _right_ , Scott, I’m not _fine_ exactly but—never mind, I’m _going_ to be fine, is that better? I love you. I love you so much. I’m on a lot of drugs and this is Scott’s phone because mine’s apparently somewhat crushed and he’s going to take it away from me in a moment because evidently I’m in some sort of potentially confused mental state and might say something to make you worry more so I’m not allowed to talk much. Oh—that might’ve made you worry. I’m sorry. I love you. Scott can come pick you up if you want, or you can meet us here if that’s faster, except I don’t know where here is, I keep forgetting the name of the hospital, and Scott’s making very strange faces at me so I’m going to stop talking now but I’m still here and I love you—”

Chris’s laughter tumbles into tears, and into laughter again. Sebastian. Alive. On his phone.

The last message is Scott again. “Things I have now learned. Never hand your husband my phone. Especially not when he’s high as a kite, and I was _not_ making strange faces, what _even_ , Seb. Chris, he’s fine, they just gave him, like, all the drugs, and also with the whole _traumatic brain injury thing_ he’s kinda confused. Temporary, I swear. Also really funny when I keep hiding his little cup of water.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Sebastian yelps in the background, “I _knew_ that was you, you let me think it was my _head,_ you—” followed by some very explicit Romanian profanities.

“Anyway,” Scott finishes, “he’s totally fine, I mean, not _fine_ fine, but, y’know. Let me know when you get this and I’ll either come get you or you can get a cab, here’s the actual hospital name and address, love you—” and gets off the phone.

Chris sniffles, clings to this hope and these words, and replays both messages once more. Because he can.

The nice compassionate airport employees drop him off at the ground transportation hub. The young woman from his escort who’s been eying him says finally, timidly, “You’re Chris Evans, right? And you’re—you’re Sebastian Stan’s Dom?”

Chris shifts weight, shaky and uncertain. “Yeah…”

“We’re cheering you on,” she says, “my whole family, we donate to the cause and go to the meetings and stuff, and I know you two kind of accidentally ended up being symbols, but—but we support you, y’know? Your right to have the life you both choose. That’s…what’s right, right?”

He glances at her throat, her wrist. No collar or bracelet. Interesting.

“Um,” she says, myriad tiny braids rustling, “I just wanted you to know. That there’re people on your side. And—and I hope he’s okay. Today. I, um, I can get you a priority car if you want, so you don’t have to wait in line for a cab? I have a friend over there I can call.”

“Please,” Chris says, “yeah, yes, thank you, thank you,” and hopes she hears him, all the gratitude he can’t form into words.

He’ll thank her again later. He’s got her name. He can send a sketch, a note, a gift for that compassion. Once he can think.

He calls Scott back from the car, carry-on backpack at his feet. Scott answers more quietly this time; Sebastian’s asleep. It’s apparently okay that he is, despite the concussion; they’re monitoring him, and they’ll wake up him soon if he doesn’t on his own, to check on his mental state. But he seems to be right where they’ve predicted, so far, so that’s good.

Scott mentions that the primary doctor on Sebastian’s case is a prejudiced traditionalist dick and they’re trying to get someone else in. And then proceeds to say, “Dude, so your husband’s, like, awesome, because he totally intimidated the guy into letting him make his own decisions.”

“He _what?”_

“I wasn’t there. I wish I’d seen it. And he did it from a hospital bed, with a concussion. And I know you two have signed papers about it or whatever, but it’s not like he has a copy on him to whip out as proof. Like I said, I wish I’d seen that.”

“He…Sebastian…did what…”

“So that’s been fun, because Doctor McJackass keeps trying to talk to Mom any time they want to change meds or poke him with something, and she keeps directing him over to Seb. Who gives him that cute innocent smile and asks him to explain it all again before agreeing. The guy’s going to implode any minute, I swear.”

“What the hell,” Chris pleads, “is even going _on_.”

“The nurses are loving it. He’s got a reputation around here, I guess.”

“Mom’s not…she’s letting Seb…is that _legal?”_

“That’s what I said. Nobody wants to argue with your husband, though. And of course Mom’s on your side. Me too, not that anyone cares. Well—Seb does.” The edge on that last comment flips around and slices through Chris’s assumptions; he’d always thought Scott enjoyed being a submissive. And maybe that’s still true, but also he’d maybe never realized just how hard that could be for his younger brother. How much it might matter to Scott, having another sub in the family, someone who would _know_.

Astonished, he stares out the car’s window, not seeing the city or the rain. More revelations. Gut-punches like thunderclaps. Rattling the world. “Scott…I…if I ever…”

“Nah, you’re great. Don’t worry about it.” Scott sighs. “It’s just…the way they’re treating him…somehow it’s worse when I’m the one watching. Except it’s not, because he fights back. Like, I don’t think that would’ve ever occurred to me. But he does. And it works.”

“Sometimes not,” Chris says. “Sometimes it’s—you know what it’s been. For him.”

“And for you.” Scott pauses. “I, um, don’t tell you this a lot, or like ever, but I kinda look up to you. Both of you. Now forget I said that. Forever, completely, and for good. I’ll call you a butthead if you want.”

“You’re…my favorite brother.” Regaining balance. Not that he doesn’t mean it. “Seriously, Scott…thanks.” For being here now. For being here for Sebastian, new to their family. For everything he himself has taken for granted over the years.

“Because I’m your only brother, yep,” Scott agrees flippantly, letting the moment go. “You’re obligated to adore me. And I adore Seb, so it all works out. He’s still asleep, by the way, so no rush. Text me when you’re here and I’ll come find you, the rooms in this place are like a maze.”

Chris promises to do so. Chris gets off the phone and breathes for a minute, in and out, and presses hands into his eyes: holding in sobs, holding his heart together, skewered by love.

Scott, true to word, comes to meet him amid painted corridors and signs and hospital desks. Pulls him into a hug without speaking, and Chris holds onto his brother, shaking, heart hammering all over again.

“Hey,” Scott says after a while, “hey, you’re okay, he’s okay,” and thumps him on the shoulder. “Come on. You can see him for yourself. He’s…well, he’s kind of banged up, but you can tell he’s all right.”

“Please,” Chris whispers. That’s all he has left. He’s beginning to believe this is real, Sebastian’s alive, Scott’s not lying. But the lonely broken pieces of his soul haven’t quite caught up. “Please.”

Scott takes his backpack—Chris had almost forgotten about it—and then takes his hand, the way he had when they’d been little kids, unashamed about it; and leads him off to Sebastian’s room.

He almost can’t go in. Trembling on the threshold. What if it’s a lie after all, if something’s happened in the moments Scott’s been gone to find him, what if they don’t know yet—

 _“Chris,”_ Sebastian’s voice gasps from the bed, and Chris forgets everything else, every doubt and fear and uncertainty, and lunges that way.

Sebastian’s beautiful, beautiful and white-faced and patched-up but _real_ , real and alive. Chris has never seen anything so perfect. Chris needs to drink him in, to taste him, to kiss him everyplace. To sink into those weary bright rainshadow eyes and never surface again. Because those eyes are here and Sebastian’s here.

He runs across the room. He stumbles into a hastily vacated spot by the bed. He clutches Sebastian’s hand—one hand, oh God, only one he can hold—and strokes hair out of Seb’s face on the side where the bandage isn’t, and presses shaken fingers to Seb’s throat, over the collar, the collar that marks Seb as his, his sweet magnificent other half. He shivers out, “Can I—kiss you, please, God, Seb—” and Sebastian’s saying “Yes” and laughing unevenly, saying yes and clinging to him. “Chris—”

He kisses Sebastian. He feels those lips warm against his. He rests their heads together after, panting. “Seb—”

“I know,” Sebastian breathes, “I know, I know, I’m so sorry, Chris—I’m sorry you had to go through—no one would give me a phone when I woke up, I kept asking, I’d’ve called you—I love you, I’m right here, I love you.”

“Love you—” He’s crying. Unabashed big fat tears. They plummet down his face like rain. Like rain, which Sebastian had been out in, when— “You’re never crossing the street alone again—”

“Not sure you can enforce that one—” His submissive stops, choked into silence by cracked ribs and exertion and awkward positions. His face is more pale. “I’m fine, I only—need to breathe—”

Chris clings to his hand while he struggles to do that, shallow and wincing. That awful fear rises up and bites hard. If Sebastian can’t breathe—if something’s moved or shifted inside—if Chris touching him has made him worse—

He should let go of Seb. Can’t make himself.

“Chris.” His name. That voice. Coming marginally easier now, battered but not fading away. “Chris. Sir. Look at me. Please. I’m right here.”

Sebastian sounds a little anxious. That can’t be good. Seb shouldn’t be anxious ever, and not because of Chris ever, and not while lying in a hospital bed. He’s forgotten how to inhale, what to do next.

“Chris,” Sebastian says again, breathless and determined. His fingers wrap around Chris’s and squeeze hard. Strong. “I’m fine. Feel that? I’m here.”

“You’re…not…fine…you’re hurt…”

“I am. But I’m alive. Anything else—anything worse—it _didn’t happen_. This is what happened. Trust me. Believe me.”

“I do…”

Sebastian turns his hand. Wriggles until Chris’s fingertips brush his wrist, the delicate veins and pulse-point there. “You can check for yourself. And you didn’t hurt me, just now. I sat up the wrong way. That’s all, Chris, I promise.”

Chris’s fingertips drink in the beating of Sebastian’s heart. The music under skin, reliable and keeping time. Time they’ve got back.

He ends up breathing in time with Seb, too.

He murmurs, “You’re alive…”

Sebastian nods, solemn as a vow. His hair sticks up around the bandage, dark and sunflower-fluffy; he wears evidence of injury like a crown. He’s pale and glorious and the strongest person in that hospital room, the most incredible person Chris has ever, ever known.

And his lips remain slightly pink from being kissed, when they quirk into that smile. “I might need you to make coffee for me, at home. Since I can’t get up.”

“All the coffee,” Chris swears, “whenever you want it, ever. Um. If that’s okay. Caffeine. Your meds. I can buy decaf.”

Sebastian actually rolls eyes at him, which more than anything shouts to the rooftops that this is true. “That’s not coffee.”

“I love you,” Chris says. “I love you.”

His mother, having moved to the other chair, gets misty-eyed.

Scott, leaning against the wall, says, “Awww, you’re precious.”

“Did you ever get me water?” Sebastian says. “I thought I asked, but…”

Scott tries to hide a huff of laughter. Chris whips around that way and glares. He’d find it hilarious if this was his brother and not Sebastian, yeah, he can admit as much, but that fact is: it’s not. He doesn’t _like_ the reminder that Sebastian’s still more hurt than readily apparent.

“Sorry,” Scott apologizes. “Last time, I swear. Here.”

Sebastian doesn’t have a spare hand because Chris won’t let go. They resolve this with Chris holding the cup and straw for him. Their eyes meet across water: odd reminders of other moments, collisions of the present and the past, and the shimmering intimacy of hand-feeding, kneeling, being petted and praised…

Chris clears his throat. Sets the water down when Sebastian seems done. Not the time for those thoughts. Not any time soon. Not until he’s damn satisfied that Seb’s up to it.

He wants to, though. He wants Sebastian under his hands, under his commands, under him, being taken to the heights of pleasure. He wants Sebastian to feel good and happy and safe and completely blissful and above all present, here and with him. The two of them, joined.

His husband, being a mind-reader, murmurs, “Yes, please, I want that too,” with a very faint pink flush to those cheeks. Good. Pink means life. Sebastian also adds, “I feel as if I’m missing something in regards to Scott and the water,” and Scott interjects hastily, “It’s not important, I’m a dick, I’m sorry.”

Sebastian lets this apology hang in the room for a second or two, and then grins. “I know. I was wondering whether I could make you feel guilty about it.”

Scott splutters, waves arms around, flails at him. “How long’ve you known? Have you been fucking with me this whole time? You are _so_ part of this family!”

Their mother’s laughing. She gives Seb a covert thumbs-up. Approval, plus something else, a significant sort of nod. Chris must’ve missed something. He’ll ask later.

“Not the whole time.” Sebastian grins more, proud of himself, holding Chris’s hand. “The last two times. Before that everything’s sort of…a jigsaw puzzle. In there, but not put together well. But I’m doing better, I think.”

Chris has to kiss him. “How, um, how bad is it? You said not put together…”

“Yes.” Sebastian sighs. “I’m missing what actually happened. And some bits after. I know I’ve forgotten what happened to my phone, more than once, except now I remember the last time someone told me. I know I called you and left a message but I don’t know what I said. Everything since they woke me up this last time seems to be fine. It’s frustrating, but I think I’ll be okay from here on. I’d like to go home now, but—”

“No,” say both Dominants in the room immediately. His mother laughs. “Sorry, Chris. Sebastian, you won that fight already, let us have this one. You can go home tomorrow.”

“Yeah, about that.” He touches Seb’s cheek, Seb’s collar. “You did what to your doctor?”

“He wouldn’t tell me anything.” Sebastian lifts that chin a bit more. Stubborn as the boy who’d built his own life out of music and hope and secrets, before ever meeting Chris Evans. “And I needed to know so I could tell you. And…I might’ve been angry. Upset. They put an official registered submissive’s bracelet on me. The kind I couldn’t take off.”

Scott’s quieter curse gets drowned in Chris’s louder vicious one. He glances at Seb’s wrist. Nothing there now. Nothing but the memory: the idea that Seb’s the brainless trophy and gilded object he’s spent his life fighting not to be.

One more curse. Just because. And his fingers around Seb’s wrist, hopefully erasing any hint of that implacable presence. “You got them to take it off? And why would they—you have a collar!”

“Scans, interference, something like that.” Seb shrugs, one-shouldered. “They had to take it off. I don’t remember that part, only…only waking up with no collar and the—the other one on. One of the nurses helped me get it off and my collar back on.” The casual tone belies the quiver in his eyes. Sebastian uses his voice like one of his instruments—a melody, inflections, emphasis or lightness—and he’s trying hard, but that’s more of an act than he’s letting on.

Some submissives wouldn’t’ve cared, or minded, or even noticed. Sebastian, though…

Chris scoops up his husband’s hand. Kisses cold fingers. Kisses the back of his hand, and his wrist, and the soft tender line of his forearm, trailing upward. Murmurs to Seb’s palm, again to his elbow, “Mine.”

Sebastian settles back into pillows. “I know.”

“I’m yours.”

“I know.” Seb’s smile blooms like stars, like bedroom lights, like coming home. “I know you’ll take care of me, Chris. I trust you.”

“Not,” Scott says wryly, “that you need it. Though I think you’re gonna be overruled if you want to go home now.”

Chris looks up. “What’d your asshole doctor say?”

“At least overnight,” Sebastian says. “Observation. Perhaps one more day if necessary, but I can lie around in bed just as easily at home. Where I can also watch you walk around naked.”

Scott grumbles, “I so did not need to hear that…”

“Consider it revenge for however many times you enjoyed me being confused.”

“Overnight, then,” Chris says. “Maybe one more day. Whatever they think’s best for you.” He’s here now. He’s Sebastian’s Dominant. He’s going to make sure that’s what happens. He hadn’t been able to prevent this, but he can protect Seb from now on. He can keep Seb safe.

“I’ve requested someone else,” his mother observes. “I’m not opposed to throwing some weight around. But in the meantime I’ve also checked with the nurses, and they seem to think he can go home tomorrow. So we’ll plan on that, assuming it’s what you want, Sebastian.”

Seb grins at her. Must’ve been an interesting conversation, earlier. He’ll have to ask his husband, who says both cheerfully and sincerely, “Yes, ma’am. Or Mom? And did someone call my mother back? I honestly can’t recall that one.”

“I did,” Lisa Evans says, and if that’s an answer to a repeated question she’s unbothered by it, “and she’ll come down and visit once you’re home and settled. I believe there was mention of soup. And yes, sweetheart, of course it’s Mom.” She even pats his knee. “How’s your head?”

And Sebastian, to Chris’s surprise, admits aloud, “Hurting a bit. Not badly.”

“We’ll call your nurse in, then. And you’ll tell him so.”

“What,” Chris wonders, “did you two do to each other, before I got here…? Seb, baby, how bad is it? Really hurting?”

Sebastian turns that smile on him. Radiant. “Not too much. Better with you here. I love you.”

“And I love you.” He bends down for a kiss, and can’t resist trailing more kisses across uninjured places: the corner of those delicious lips, Seb’s cheek, the tempting spot under that lovely jawline. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

And Sebastian’s safe. Not _because_ of him, no—Seb can rescue himself. Seb obviously _has_. Sebastian’s strong enough to be sitting here and to shield Chris against heart-wounds and to stand up to monsters shaped like prejudiced physicians. For him; for them.

So Chris can care for him in turn, because Sebastian needs that now, letting go and letting cracks show and being caught. Balance. Rightness. The way they fit together. Always have, always will.

He squares shoulders. Up to the task. Being Seb’s hero: not so much because Chris thinks of himself that way, but because Sebastian needs care and cherishing, and, well. Chris isn’t going to let him down. So there. That’s that.

Sebastian’s monitors beep in confirmation. They’re all alive and here.

Sebastian smiles at him more. Chris holds his hand, and thinks about taking him home and holding him even closer, about soup and feeding Seb by hand and gentle caresses and coffee with or without caffeine and more kisses, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.

He believes in that tomorrow.


End file.
